Salvation
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: "Honestly, John, surely you've seen an Angel before." Wing!lock AU. Wing!lock 'version' of Series Three, Episode Three and onwards. (Major spoilers start in Chapter Three.) Canon drug use (no descriptions of, just after-effects) within; revamped HLV plot-point.
1. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Angel

**Salvation**

John coughed slightly in the dust and debris, squinting in attempts to see through the cloud that surrounded them.

He couldn't wait to get out of here.

People were yelling his name. His ears were still ringing from the IED and he was practically choking on the dust and death around them, but he had to press on. He was an army doctor. His duty was to protect and take care of these people. John Watson, MD, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Queen and Country. Whither the Fates Call.

The gunfire wasn't a surprise, but the sudden heat was. His shoulder grew very hot and then the pain came; he went down like a ton of bricks, aware of screaming but unaware that _he_ was the one doing the screaming.

He heard his name, over and over, and, as he closed his eyes, there was a flash of something black, something blue, a shadow that broke the brightness of Afghanistan, but John was unconscious before he could see what had impaired his vision.

* * *

It wasn't a surprise that, when John returned to London, he found himself deep into an uncurable depression riddled with boredom and unhappiness.

He didn't know how many times that the gun in his drawer found its way into his hand and it wouldn't be until far into the future until John began to wonder _how_ the chamber had never ended up emptied when he'd held it. It was a heavy, cold presence in his hand, reminding him of his days in the service and how those were days that he would never have again. So, he would wonder... in the future... how it had never ended up empty.

The most accepted theory was that John Watson had a Guardian Angel.

John knew this wasn't true.

In a world where Humans and Angels co-existed on the same plane, it wasn't a far-fetched concept to think that he _might_ have a guardian angel. But Guardians showed up in the time of need and they stayed for a lifetime. John hadn't met anyone new as of late and all the people had had surely hadn't had _wings_.

So, he didn't have a Guardian Angel. That was obvious.

Still, he hadn't shot himself yet, so he supposed he had luck.

Surprise coloured his life when an old friend from Bart's stepped into his life. Stamford, Mike, that was, and then he met Sherlock Holmes. And then it wasn't a matter of how many times he held the gun in his hand for a sign of remembrance of battle but as a _legitimate reason_; he shot people for Sherlock Holmes.

He was rude, he was pompous, he was childish and blunt and strange. But John liked him... liked him a lot in fact.

And then there was a fiasco with a psychopath, Sherlock committed suicide, and John was alone again.

No, he definitely didn't have a Guardian Angel.

But then Sherlock came back.

Somehow. Magnificently. Miraculously.

Miracles did happen.

John pushed Sherlock's bedroom door open without knocking. Their relationship had progressed beyond needing to knock at this stage. "Sherlock, did you-"

He stopped abruptly.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his bed, completely naked from head to toe save the black-brown curls on his head and... what appeared... to be... jet-black... _wings_ sprouting from his back. He glanced up in surprise, looking vaguely shocked and then a little bit abashed. "... John."

For the first (and hopefully last) time in his life, John fainted.

When he came to, he was curled up in a bed that wasn't his and he was drenched in sweat. He couldn't exactly remember _why..._

"Honestly, John, surely you've seen an Angel before."

Sherlock's monotone snapped John out of his reverie. He sat up quickly, making a grab for the blankets for whatever reason. Security, he supposed.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Are you alright?"

John blinked a few times. "... You're an Angel," he said quietly.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. His tone gave voice to the unspoken _So?_

"... You're an _Angel_," John repeated, finding the correct conviction. "I didn't know you were an Angel!"

"That is obvious," Sherlock said, pulling his dressing gown more firmly over his shoulders. "I was never particularly hiding it from you."

John stared up at him, feeling like a stranger in his own skin. Sure, he knew that Angels lived with Humans and he had even seen a few Angels in his lifetime. A few in Afghanistan, to be sure, but... _living with him_? For _two _years?

"Stop staring, John. I haven't changed at all since we went out to dinner earlier."

"You have wings!" John accused.

"I've had wings," Sherlock said. "I didn't just grow them a half hour ago."

"... For two years?" John asked weakly.

Sherlock shrugged. "I said everyone else was an idiot when I first met you, didn't I?"

"Where are they... where..." John trailed off.

"On my back, as is obvious," Sherlock replied, turning away. He went to his dresser, presumably to find his pyjamas to put on.

John tried to be sly in inspecting the satin blue cloth that covered Sherlock's back, looking for any sign of Sherlock's... state of species.

Sherlock sighed. "Did you want to see them or are you just going to pass out again?" he asked dryly.

"... Can I?" John asked quietly.

"You're the only person allowed to _make _me show you my wings," Sherlock muttered.

Before John could process that statement, Sherlock had unhooked his gown's belt and let it fall from his shoulders, pooling in a heap around his ankles. He was still without a stitch of clothing beneath it but, for once, John wasn't sputtering at him for it.

Because the jet-black wings that unfurled from Sherlock's body took predominance, predominance over everything. They were long and large, the blackest black that John had ever seen. Where the light hit them, they almost seemed to have a blue shine, a hue to them that very nearly had John's mouth falling open before he caught himself.

The feathers looked silky, soft to the touch. John again had to shake himself away from the childlike wonder of experiencing something he hadn't yet experienced, resisting the urge to crawl off the bed and walk the few short feet to where Sherlock's wings were.

The spell was broken when Sherlock drew them back close, drawing them impossibly tight around his body. The very tips of the feathers draped the floor near his ankles and Sherlock glanced over his shoulder.

"Impressed?" he asked, his voice a monotone but the slightest hint of curiosity rearing its head into the question.

"Do you honestly think I'm _not_?" John retorted. "You're beautiful."

Sherlock snorted and turned back to his dresser.

John felt the tips of his ears burn. "That's not what I meant, you arse. Your wings. Your wings are beautiful."

Sherlock hummed in a non-commenting tone, but something about the way that his wings shuffled slightly made John think that he had taken the compliment to heart.

"... What do you do with them? When you're dressed, I mean," John asked shortly.

"They stay where they are," Sherlock said, stepping into a pair of pyjama pants.

"But how come no one notices?"

"Most of the time when I go out, my coat provides for good coverage," Sherlock said conversationally. "Otherwise, I do have a sort of... cloaking 'magic', per se, but I don't use it often. Any magic uses up Angel mana, as it were, so I don't tend to bother using any of it. Most people don't pay enough attention to notice."

"'Angel mana'?" John repeated, raising his eyebrows.

Sherlock sighed. "I'm just putting it in terms you'll understand. I doubt you took a course in Angels when you were in training."

John shook his head. "No... Guardians tend to, you know, _save_ people, not need saving."

He stopped suddenly. Guardians. They... saved... people...

He looked up at Sherlock. "... Are you here because of me?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock fixed the shoulders of his shirt, fingers roving to his dressing gown. "Of course."

John blinked again. "You're my Guardian."

"Yes."

"My _Guardian Angel_," John repeated.

"Yes," Sherlock repeated. "You are remarkably slow this evening. I mean, you seemed to be there for the case today, but now you've taken a backturn."

"I just found out you're an Angel; what do you expect?!"

Sherlock shrugged. "A cup of tea would be nice, actually. Do you want one?" He brushed out of the bedroom, his feathers completely invisible beneath the clothes he was wearing. Not a feather remained in his place.

"Wait just a moment," John exclaimed, following him. "How long have you-"

"That's a dull question, John. You know when we met."

"But Angels aren't supposed to Descend for a person unless they're in need, dying."

"... Afghanistan," Sherlock said quietly.

Realisation hit like a ton of bricks and for the second time in the night, John felt light-headed and woozy.

"... You. The black, back in Afghanistan... it was you."

"Yes."

"I thought I was just seeing things."

"You weren't."

"You saved me."

"Yes."

"... You're my Angel," John repeated, sinking into the kitchen chair.

Sherlock sighed, sitting a steaming cup of tea in front of him. "We're going to have one of those talk things, aren't we?" he asked dryly.

John looked up to meet his gaze, nodding ever-so-slightly as he stared at the detective... his Guardian Angel, literally, in the flesh.

* * *

**So, I've finally succumbed to writing an AU. Wing!lock is so damn... attractive. Ever since Ben played Islington in... _Neverwhere_, was it? By Neil Gaiman, on the radio? Oh, the crossovers and now the wing!lock. And I love it. It's my one AU fault.**

**Special thanks to meridette, who's given me in-depth help with wing!lock thus far and helped to persuade me without knowing it to write and publish my own wing!lock.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. I'd love your opinions, since this is my first real AU. :P**


	2. Welcome to My World

"You didn't know me, so I just went the deductive route and made you think that I was just a random passerby," Sherlock said, munching on a piece of toast. "You didn't remember me from Afghanistan, so it was easier than trying to explain I was your Angel."

"Why? You should have told me," John said.

"Why?" Sherlock countered. "It wasn't necessary and it's not in the Handbook."

"There's a Handbook?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes. I ignore the rules that won't get me into too much trouble, though."

John laughed slightly. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Because I attracted a psychopath's attention on the first day that you and I met which coalesced into my faking my own death and then coming back to London and you finding out that I'm an Angel," Sherlock said simply, taking a drink of his tea.

John snapped his fingers. "_That's_ how you faked your death!"

Sherlock glanced up. "Huh?"

"You just fluffed out your wings and cushioned your fall. And then blood from Molly and... I thought you said there were snipers on you."

"One," Sherlock clarified. "But Mycroft got him to reconsider. The rest were just waiting on a signal... They were at Scotland Yard and Baker Street."

"... Huh." John slumped back in his chair. "So, what does this mean?"

"What does what mean?" Sherlock asked, taking another bite of his toast.

"This." John gestured between him and Sherlock.

"It means nothing more than it did when we first met. I'm here to protect you. Until your heart stops, John Watson," he said, smirking. "Or until I die," he added.

"You can... really die?"

"Well... In ways. This body is a vessel. So if I was shot or jumped off a roof," he said sardonically, "my vessel would die but I would be sent back into Heaven until I could possess a new vessel. But there are ways to kill Angels..." he trailed off and studiously chewed his toast.

John got the distinct impression that he wasn't going to elaborate. "Alright..."

"But my job is to protect you, so I'll always be around." Sherlock finished off his toast, brushing crumbs onto the floor. "The two years I was away nearly killed me."

John raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"I'm serious. I wasn't around you. I had people watching you, of course, but when an Angel and its..."

"Human," John supplied.

"Sure," Sherlock replied absently. "Human are separated, things... physically happen to the Angel. I was moulting," he said disdainfully.

John felt like there was something more there than Sherlock was letting on, going by the distant look in his eyes, but he didn't pull him up on it.

Sherlock shook his head, picking up his mug. "Are we done with this?"

"There's nothing else I should know?"

Sherlock shook his head again. "No. Nothing more than you already know. You didn't even need to know I was your Angel; it hardly makes a difference."

"Well, I'm glad..." John cleared his throat. "I mean, it's good to know."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, standing. "Does it make you feel protected, knowing I would throw myself under a bus for you?" he asked sarcastically.

"Would you, though?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "By Angel guidelines, I have to."

"Oh, nice," John muttered, picking up his tea to take it to the sitting room.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'd die if I didn't, anyway. Or rather, be cast into Purgatory and, despite my don't-care attitude, that's _not_ really someplace I want to go."

John sank into his chair. "You'd be sent to Hell?"

"Purgatory," Sherlock replied, ruffling his hair. "Worse than what you can think or imagine about your Hell." He yawned. "Really, are we done? I'm tired."

John sighed heavily. "Go to bed. You know I'm going to-"

"Have more questions later, yes," Sherlock said. "I'm sure."

Without another word, Sherlock turned and trudged back to his bedroom. The door closed and John heard the squeak of the mattress as the detective fell into bed.

John sighed again and stared at the blank television screen. How quickly his life had changed. But, if nothing else, he thought, at least life with Sherlock Holmes wasn't boring.

* * *

John puffed out a breath, racing off after Sherlock.

"Sherlock... Sherlock, watch it!"

"Wait up!"

"Keep up!" Sherlock yelled back, clamouring onto the fire escape and darting up the stairs.

John barely cleared the fire escape ladder - damn the man for having such long arms - and took off after him.

"We're going to lose him!"

John blindly followed Sherlock without so much as a thought to where they were going or how their suspect planned on getting away. They were on the rooftops now, pretty high up. No one was getting down unless they jumped, and if anyone jumped, they wouldn't be alive after they fell.

Unless it was Sherlock Holmes. Because Sherlock Holmes could apparently do that.

One minute, Sherlock was running along the expanse of the rooftop. The next, he'd slipped and all John saw was a glimpse of the dark greatcoat tumbling over the incline.

"Sherlock!"

John didn't think that Sherlock was an angel. He didn't think that only vessels could die, that Sherlock technically couldn't die, only his body would be harmed and his soul or spirit or whatever would still be around, doomed to protect John for the rest of his life.

He didn't think about that. He wasn't used to the concept. He just knew that he watched his best friend plummet over the side of a roof and his stomach dropped out.

"Sherlock!"

John scrambled to the edge of the roof, looking towards the ground. Sherlock wasn't splattered on the ground. Sherlock wasn't... anywhere, in fact, not that John could see.

"... Sherlock?"

"What?"

There was a light _whooshing_ around his ears and John whirled around unsteadily, watching a now half-naked Sherlock land lightly on the roof behind him. John just, in simple terms, ogled.

"Don't look so surprised," Sherlock muttered, tucking his wings close to his body.

This was so bizarre. Only two weeks ago, John had been made aware of the fact that his best friend his Guardian Angel and now? Sherlock was falling off of rooftops and flying back to land on said rooftop he'd fallen off of.

"You can fly," he said - rather stupidly, he had to admit.

"Of course I can fly," Sherlock said, fingers gripping gently at his feathers from beneath his wings. "Wings generally are for flying... Well, most of the time. Some birds, penguins, for instance-"

"Sher- I don't _care_ about penguins," John retorted. "Are you alright? What happened to your clothes?" He traipsed back up the roof to join Sherlock. "Are you hurt?"

Sherlock sighed. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? And where did your clothes go?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow briefly. "Well, cloth doesn't just grow holes for these vast appendages to shoot out of. I ruined another coat." He sighed, his breath turning to a puff of condensation. "And lost the suspect."

"Why didn't you fly after him?" John asked, following Sherlock back towards the fire escape.

Sherlock shuffled his wings a bit, mumbling something that John didn't catch.

"What?"

"I can't fly well," Sherlock muttered.

John blinked. "You..."

"I already said it once; I'm not saying it again."

John couldn't help but smile at his tone. "Why not? Didn't you learn when you were a kid or something?"

"Well... Sort of. There are different forms in different realms and learning to fly as a Human is like you learning to walk. Mum and Dad helped with it a bit, in our true forms, but they both got assignments. I never took to it and Mycroft never helped much... Not to mention he became a Guardian before me and, by the time I got here for you, he was quite used to flying."

"... _Mycroft_'s one too?!"

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. "Of course. Heritage," he said, like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

John sighed, rubbing his eyes. "How in the _hell_ did I never notice this? Two years living with you, well, two and a half now, two years that I assumed you were dead and I still had _no_ idea..."

Sherlock shrugged. "I didn't go falling off rooftops unless it was intentional and you never spent much time with Mycroft."

"I feel so stupid," John muttered.

"It's touch and go," Sherlock said, hailing down a cab.

John crawled into the cab after Sherlock, sinking heavily into the seat. "But an _Angel_. You think I would have noticed feathers."

"If you did, you probably thought it was an experiment," Sherlock replied, stretching a bit. "Ugh..."

John glanced at him. "Are you sure you're not hurt?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, not like that. While I was away for two years, going out of London left for a lot of flight time. Now that I'm back, well, the city doesn't make for a great place to fly and I've been out of practise the past six months now."

"Do you like flying?" John asked, his eyes once again invariably drawn to the black-blue feathers wrapping Sherlock's upper torso.

"I like solving cases," Sherlock said. "But I like flying a lot, too. Love it, actually, when I manage it. I went down in a tree on the outskirts of Portsmouth earlier last year; I thought I was dying." He glanced sideways at John. "You can, if you'd like."

John met his gaze. "I can what?"

"Touch them," Sherlock clarified. "You've been dying to ever since I showed them to you."

John swallowed and flicked his gaze back to Sherlock's wings. He felt strangely nervous and he wasn't sure why. Nonetheless, he reached his hand out and gently brushed his fingertips against Sherlock's wings.

Sherlock jerked from the touch and John pulled his head back as though he'd been shocked, heart racing.

"Sorry," he muttered.

Sherlock shivered slightly. "No. That was my fault. Wings are sensitive. Sort of tickled." He frowned. "No one's ever touched my wings. Well, except to pluck feathers."

"Why would someone pluck your feathers?" John asked, reaching out to run his fingers over Sherlock's feathers again without asking this time.

"Angel Wings are priceless amongst Humans. The more feathers you have from a viable host, the more value they have. It's also common of Wingers to take feathers from the Angel they have sex with to keep as a momento-"

"_Woah_, wait a second," John said, pulling his hand back again. "Wingers? Sex? Look, Sherlock, I know Angels exist but I've never done any research and it wasn't as commonly discussed when I was in school."

"Wingers are non-Angels, mostly Humans, in this case, sexually attracted to Angels. And yes, Angels can have sex. We are in human vessels, after all, and that is a normal part of human biology." His tone stated _obviously_.

"It seems... rather derogatory, for Angels," John muttered.

"And your parents were Bible-thumping Christians," Sherlock replied easily. "But it's different than that. Angels have no use of sex when we're in our true forms, but when we take another form, their likenesses become ours. It's really nothing crude or defiling."

"Like you'd know," John said, tearing his gaze away from Sherlock and to the window. He was normal. He really was. And now there was another implication. _Wingers_. So people were going to think that he was gay _and_ a Winger. A gay Winger. Great. How often was he going to have to tell people he wasn't _this_ time?

"More than you'd think," Sherlock muttered, looking at his own window.

John felt his face flush... again. "I don't want the details, thanks," he muttered.

"Well, not sex with anyone else, anyway. Not many people actually know I'm an Angel so going to bed with them would probably give them a heart attack, not to mention that I don't actually _care_ to have sex with anyone," Sherlock said.

"I _said_, I don't want the details," John repeated loudly.

Sherlock chuckled softly and fell silent, the only movement in the cab Sherlock's wings brushing John's coat as he shuffled them slightly.

* * *

**Onto Chapter Two! More explanations abounds for poor little Human!John.**

**Warning for upcoming chapters: I'm borrowing plot straight out of Series Three, so there'll be some pretty major spoilers. Yes, I know, where's Mary if you're taking on Series Three? Sorry, Mary's not here. I love her, but it works better if the boys are living together if Sherlock's an Angel. You'll just have to wait and see what happens.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Any reference to _Supernatural_ (which would be coincidental because I don't watch it) also is not mine.**

**Love your reviews and keep them coming. :) Thank you!**


	3. I'm Not a Hero, I'm a Guardian Angel

**Spoiler alert: Major spoilers for _His Last Vow._**

* * *

John kept his gaze firmly on Charles, but he felt Sherlock slip the revolver out of his coat pocket. He wasn't sure he was going to do with it. He had a sinking suspicion - well, a little bit of an idea in his head, anyway - but he pushed it away. Sherlock wouldn't do that.

"I'm not a hero. I'm a high-functioning sociopath," Sherlock said loudly, over the chopping noise of the helicopter blades nearby. "Merry Christmas!" he shouted.

It happened all so fast in John's mind that he knew he'd be processing it for weeks. Sherlock raised the gun to Charles, pulled the trigger, shooting him directly in the forehead. Charles went down, Sherlock dropped the gun and held up his hands and MI6 converged around them.

"Stay well away, John!" Sherlock yelled, putting his hands to his head.

John didn't know what to say, what to do... Sherlock had just _shot_ someone. Killed him. He was a murderer. Charles was a bastard, but he hadn't been threatening them. He hadn't been about to shoot him, he hadn't been throwing physical abuse asides from the flicking...

He was about to swear again when he noticed a flash of pain shooting across Sherlock's face before he looked back to the men in black converging on him.

"Sherlock?" John asked breathlessly.

Sherlock didn't reply, asides a low groan that John knew that he wasn't supposed to hear through the noise.

"Sherlock!"

John didn't get an answer, because Sherlock was being dragged away then. But he stumbled - and he never stumbled - and shook his head erratically, seeming out of it as he was taken away to the waiting car.

"Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?"

* * *

"Since this is likely to be the last time I see John Watson, could we have a moment?"

John hadn't seen him in two weeks and he took in his friend carefully. He looked... well, horrible beneath that mask that he always tried to keep up. He was pale, his eyes were tinged red. Dark half-circles accentuated his bright eyes, which lacked the thrill of the case. Even as John watched, Sherlock stiffened up only the slightest amount, meant to be unnoticeable, but John's eye caught it.

"What happened to you?" he demanded once their audience had left. "Where have you been?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Around."

"You look like hell."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Good to know."

"... You're not really leaving, are you?" John asked quietly.

"So it appears-" Sherlock cut off with a muffled gasp, twitching slightly.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock swallowed, coughing slightly. "Nothing. It's... oh." He curled over slightly, fingers clenching into fists.

"Sherlock, tell me," John said.

"I... broke... Angel... Code," Sherlock gasped out, doubling over.

"What? Okay, okay, come h- sit down," John said, helping Sherlock to sit down on the tarmac. "Lean back against the car."

"Can't."

"Why not? Just do it."

"My wings," Sherlock gasped. "My wings..."

John's hands fell back to his sides uselessly. "Oh... What happened?"

"... Broke Angel Code... killed someone..." Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, elongating his spine with a stretch. "Only reason I'm not burning is because it was technically for you, but... still. The Codex," he muttered.

"Can I help?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock hummed, leaning his shoulder back against the car. "I'll be fine..."

"Are you sure you're okay?" John asked worriedly.

"I didn't say I was okay," Sherlock said, closing his eyes.

"You said you'd be fine," John retorted.

"I will be fine," Sherlock snapped.

John sighed. "Okay."

Silence fell, asides from the purr of the plane's engine behind them and Sherlock's slightly quickened breathing.

"... How can you leave if you're bonded to me?" John murmured.

Sherlock opened his eyes. "I'm not Bonded to you."

John frowned, leaning back next to Sherlock. "I thought you were my Guardian."

"I am. But we're not Bonded."

John didn't respond for a moment. If Sherlock had been his Guardian Angel for going on five years now, it was clear that he _could_ leave without serious injury to himself. He probably just couldn't stay away indefinitely. But, if he was going into exile... He wouldn't see John again. Ever, probably, according to him at the beginning of the conversation.

"What happens with you being away from me? You said weird things happened when you weren't with your... what am I called, anyway?"

"A damsel in distress." Sherlock laughed dryly. "In terms of Angel Lore, you'd be one of the Protected."

"Protected. Oh, creative," John muttered before raising his voice. "What happens when an Angel isn't with the one they're supposed to be protecting?"

"I'll die," Sherlock said simply.

John looked at him sharply. "_What?_"

"I'll die," Sherlock replied, looking at him. "Being away from you will kill me, as melodramatic as that does sound."

John just stared at him. What was he supposed to _say_ to that?

"Given my condition now... and the two year separation from before... I'd guess I have about... six months," Sherlock said quietly.

"You're going to die in six months," John repeated.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, that's the estimate. Mycroft thinks so, too." He paused. "He's never wrong."

Well. That was... just great. John had already lost his best friend once, now he was preparing to lose him again? Not just to exile, but he was _literally_ going to _die_.

John couldn't let that happen.

"If you were Bonded to me, would you still die in six months?" he asked.

Sherlock frowned. "No... If you and I were Bonded, Mycroft is bound by the Codex that he cannot separate us. Either you would come with me or I would stay here." He stopped, looking at John again. "Are you suggesting it?"

"I don't want you to die," John said quietly. "If it's not going to change anything-"

"It will," Sherlock interrupted. "Our lives will be interwoven from the moment that the ceremony starts."

John raised his eyebrows. "Well. Good thing our lives are already interwoven tighter than a knit scarf on a cold day."

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment before breaking out into a genuine Sherlock smile.

* * *

**Author's note of myself being a bit of a berk: The term in my last chapter 'Winger' - I thought it was a real thing and then I found it someone had made it up specifically for their own story. It had caught my attention in that story that I had read and it stuck and so, _major_ credit to TearStainedAshes and InvisibleBlade for the lovely term that leads way into all different types of teasing. It is not a creation of my own, but of theirs, and thank you for allowing me to use it in my own story. :)**

**To the story plot: I couldn't shove all of the Bond into one chapter. :P Also, I would like to reiterate the fact that I do not condone violence, whether it's for 'Guardian Angel' purposes or not. It just flowed with the story and Sherlock would do anything to protect his John. And if you're going to say _This wouldn't have happened if Mary wasn't there!_, it probably would have. Eventually. CAM was there even before Mary was. Lady Smallwood was the reason Sherlock got involved with him in the first place, so give me a bit of leeway here. It's Wing!lock, after all. Leniency abounds.**

**If you're still following, drop me your thoughts in a review. It takes only a second but it makes me happy for a good long while to see feedback.  
I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	4. Bondmates for Life

"So," John asked, the cold January air ruffling his hair, "how do we do this?"

"This really isn't a convenient place for this and I'm not up to the actual ceremony..." Sherlock mumbled. "I'd have to give you a temporary Marking."

"Okay. How goes it?"

Sherlock looked at him oddly, eyebrows furrowing together. "John... You... Are you _sure_ you want to be Bonded to me?"

John frowned also. "Why wouldn't I? If it isn't going to change anything drastically... or the ceremony isn't some weird run-around, I'm fine with it."

"Why would you _want_ be Bonded to me?" Sherlock retorted.

"Why? I don't want you to die."

"Why? Why care? I'm just your Guardian; you aren't supposed to care about me. If I fail in protecting you, you'll receive a new Angel."

John's frown deepened. "Why would I want a different Angel when I've already got a good one?"

Sherlock's head fell to the side a few degrees. His lips parted to say something but he closed his mouth again. "Okay," he said simply, sounding unsure.

John didn't know why, but he didn't bother questioning it. "So, a temporary Mark. What is that?"

"This works," Sherlock said shortly, pulling his gloves off. "You can still get out of it if you decide you don't want to be Bonded to me."

"Don't count on it," John murmured.

Sherlock reached for John's wrist. "I need you to relax."

John let his breath out in a heavy exhale, closing his eyes. "Is it going to hurt?" he asked quietly, doing his best to calm his heart into a slower, more healthy rhythm. He didn't get nervous really, but this was one of those times.

"No. Relax."

John took another deep breath, letting it out slowly. There was shuffling movement as Sherlock moved. John wondered what he was doing and he sorely resisted the urge to open his eyes, even if Sherlock hadn't told him to keep them closed.

A solid two minutes went by, with Sherlock silent and his fingers pressed gently against John's pulse point. John must have sufficiently calmed himself down enough because Sherlock started moving again.

"Keep your breathing steady. There's no reason for you to be nervous," Sherlock murmured.

"I can't see what you're doing," John mumbled.

"You don't need to see."

John sighed. "It's a good job I trust you," he muttered.

Sherlock chuckled softly; John suspected he wanted to say something but was holding back.

Silence pervaded with a sense of insecurity - John was honest, he did trust Sherlock, but... - until Sherlock pressed his fingers against John's temples. John didn't flinch.

The fingers vanished then, reappearing gently over John's eyelids and then, one finger, over John's lips. It was wet and he resisted the urge to either purse his lips or shove Sherlock's hand away.

"Alright, we're done," Sherlock murmured, dropping his hand.

John opened his eyes. "What was on your fingers?" he asked, watching Sherlock wipe his hand on his coat.

Sherlock shrugged. "Saliva."

John made a face, which he immediately tried to smooth over. "Oh."

Sherlock smirked. "It's a substitute for a temporary Bond. I could have used any bodily fluid, but I figured you'd be more comfortable with this."

"Er, yeah," John muttered, shaking away thoughts he didn't care to entertain. "Best option. Anyway... uh... I don't feel any different."

Sherlock struggled to his feet, stretching. "Not yet. Not until the real ceremony. But you smell different." His eyes lit up. "Let's go watch Mycroft get _really_ angry," he said.

"Wait, I _smell_ different?" John asked, standing up, too.

"Angel pheromones. Essentially, I Marked you," Sherlock explained.

John sighed. "Oh great. Something else to explain that we're _not_ gay."

"Oh, relax," Sherlock said, leading the way across the tarmac. "Only Angels can smell it."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged. "At least they'll know that you're mine."

John sighed, again. "Great."

* * *

"... Is there any reason we have to do this here?" John said uncomfortably, shifting in the cold air of the abandoned warehouse.

Sherlock let his shirt fall to the dirty floor, wings unfurling from seemingly nothing. As he stretched them out to full wingspan, John saw, for the first time, just _why_ they had to do this away from their flat.

Sherlock's wings were _huge_.

Sure, they had looked big back at Baker Street, but he hadn't had them stretched out. And when Sherlock had caught himself, flying, off the rooftop, John hadn't been right up next to them before he had curled them up.

So, here in an empty warehouse with nothing but a horrible draft and only both of them, John could see why the wingspan simply wouldn't have _worked_ in their own flat.

"Any more questions?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

John shivered. "Actually, yes. Why are we naked again?" he asked.

They weren't totally naked, per se, but John had been ordered to strip down to his pants, which left him shivering in the drafty building. Sherlock was wearing the same, which made John feel a little better about the balance, but... it was sodding cold.

"Well, _I_ don't have to be, but it makes it easier with the wings. _You_ have to be naked because it's easier for the Bond to take."

John sighed. "So we're naked for convenience. Great. What if someone walks in?"

"They won't," Sherlock said. "My homeless network is supervising."

"Oh, great," John muttered.

"Anyway, you need to relax," Sherlock said, drawing his wings up to his body. "And you do need to close your eyes this time."

"Can you tell me what you're going to do?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I could, or I could just do it." He paused. "It might hurt... a bit."

John, who had just closed his eyes, opened them immediately again. "Hurt a bit? Why? What should I be preparing for?"

"Nothing as painful as getting shot in Afghanistan," Sherlock said smartly.

John huffed and, taking that as Sherlock not telling him, closed his eyes again. "I hope you know I can't relax like that."

Except, suddenly, he _could_, as a rush of utter peace washed over him. Even the shock and surprise of it didn't register and he uttered a small "Sherlock?" in questioning.

"Let it happen," Sherlock replied. "And, whatever you do, keep your eyes closed."

John took a few deep breaths and did as Sherlock asked, only the slightest niggling of curiosity bypassing the serene feeling. He didn't open his eyes.

There was a rush of air - Sherlock's wings, John supplied - and Sherlock's long fingers curled around John's shoulders.

"Keep them closed," Sherlock murmured. His voice had dropped so deep that it almost came out as a straight rumble.

Beneath the calm, the hair on the back of John's neck started to stand up.

Sherlock made a noise, of annoyance, it seemed like, but didn't say anything else. Instead, he drew one of his hands down to rest against John's beating heart.

Silence fell again. Sherlock seemed to be mumbling to himself, in the same, deep, strange tone that John couldn't quite catch, but he was so used to Sherlock talking to himself that he barely noticed it. Besides, he couldn't catch the words. He couldn't understand them.

Sherlock's voice eventually trailed off.

John frowned infinitesimally when the room seemed to grow darker beneath his eyelids and he tried to find his tongue to ask Sherlock what was going on, but he couldn't move. A sharp jolt of panic went through his body when he again tried to speak and couldn't. He wanted to move, wanted to question Sherlock, what was going on and what was happening. But he couldn't. It was like he was paralysed. Why had Sherlock said to keep his eyes closed if he couldn't open them in the first place?!

Sherlock's hand clamped around the back of John's neck. "You're fighting me," he ground out. His voice was like glass and gravel, deep enough to rumble in the distance but sharp enough to pierce through John's head and mind uncomfortably. It almost hurt.

John tried to draw in a deep breath through his nose and managed well enough, letting it out slowly. Relax. Right. He had to relax.

He winced when Sherlock touched his forehead. He seemed to be drawing something, but John couldn't picture it in his own mind. Whatever he was tracing, he was tracing it with liquid. John could feel it trickling down his forehead; he squeezed his eyes together to avoid it getting in his eyes.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," Sherlock said quietly. "In accordance with the Codex, Guardian of the Protected, John Hamish Watson..." he trailed off.

John kept his eyes firmly closed, but he still hated the feeling of not being able to move about of his own free will. Sherlock was keeping him in place and, while he trusted him, he _was_ a stranger to Sherlock Holmes's world.

Sherlock mumbled something, again, in a language that was unknown to John. It had an air of finality about it, though.

John's eyelids fluttered slightly as he realised that he had control of his own body back. That he could do whatever he wanted now. And he wanted to _see_ what was going on.

"Just a few more minutes," Sherlock murmured, his voice back to normal. "Just have to finish the Bonding process..."

"Okay," John said softly, keeping his eyes closed.

Sherlock drummed his fingers against John's chest for a moment before dropping his arms abruptly. Once again John almost opened his eyes before Sherlock's wings suddenly snapped forward, encompassing John in their embrace.

John's breath left him in a rush again, mostly from surprise. Sherlock's wings were soft and silky and smooth and impossibly warm against his otherwise naked body. So warm, in fact, that they almost seemed to be... _burning_ him...

"Sherlock...?" he inquired.

Sherlock didn't reply.

His wings were _definitely_ getting hotter. John started to squirm slightly. "Sherlock!"

"Quiet."

John clamped his teeth together and clenched his fists together. This was obviously what Sherlock meant when it might hurt a bit. This was a bit more than a 'bit'.

He was sure that his skin was burning. It felt like his entire body was on fire, every place that one of Sherlock's feathers brushed his skin burning like a thousand fires. His skin had to be burning, melting right off his bones. It _hurt_.

Sherlock's wings left him suddenly and John staggered back a few steps.

Sherlock grabbed his shoulder to steady him. "Are you okay?" he asked, looking at him keenly.

John reached back to touch his back. "It... That _burned_," he complained.

"I said it might hurt," Sherlock said. "... It _was_ burning. Sort of."

John looked up.

"It's part of the Bonding ceremony. Just... don't look at your back."

This, naturally, made John _want_ to look at his back. "What? Why? Sherlock? What did you do?" he asked, twisting his head around. "Tell me."

Sherlock sighed. "It'll go away by tomorrow."

"What'll go away?"

"Call them temporary tattoos," Sherlock said.

"What!?" John demanded.

"Feather imprints."

John stopped trying to look at his back and looked at Sherlock. "... Your wings _actually_ burnt feather patterns onto my skin?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me about this ahead of time?!" John demanded. "Didn't you think that I might have liked to know?!"

"I said, they're temporary. They'll be gone by tomorrow." Sherlock paused again. "You'll be sick tomorrow."

John stopped again. "What?"

"Your body is going to try and reject the foreign substance. The Bond. You'll be sick. So will I," Sherlock said simply. "It'll only last for a short time."

John dropped his hands and went to pick up his clothes. "Wonderful. We're Bonded, I've got feather tattoos, and we're both going to be ill tomorrow. Perfect."

Sherlock watched him get dressed almost analytically. "If I had told you, you wouldn't have wanted to Bond with me."

"I thought you were trying to put me off the other day, anyway," John muttered, pulling his trousers up.

Sherlock started to pick up his clothes to get dressed as well. "... Given that argument, I probably _should_ have mentioned all of this beforehand," he muttered.

John sighed. "Why do you think I wouldn't want to be Bonded to you? It doesn't change anything, just makes us closer, somehow, you said. So, what difference does it make?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, concentrating on getting dressed. "I just... never thought anyone would want to Bond with me. I'm not 'Bondmate' material. Hardly Guardian Angel material to begin with. I never expected to be given an assignment, much less be Bonded to someone."

John glanced over his shoulder, but Sherlock was studiously intent on his clothes and wings.

How could someone so... like him... have so many insecurities? He was an Angel, for goodness sake. He had all the reasons to believe in himself, not doubt himself.

Sherlock's emotions only seemed to have turned more complex after John had found out about the Angel thing. That made it more... confusing. No wonder Sherlock was such a git to everyone sometimes.

"Well, I think you're a pretty good Angel," John said shortly, looking back at his jacket. "Asides from the faking your death thing..."

"I said I was sorry!" Sherlock protested.

John smiled faintly. "You're a good Angel. And a pretty good friend, too."

Sherlock straightened up, making a noise of disgust. "Can we just go back home? You're getting disgustingly sentimental and I'd like to be back at Baker Street before we both start feeling unwell."

John rolled his eyes and buttoned his coat. "Very well, Valkyrie," he said teasingly. "Lead on."

Sherlock frowned, looking down at him. "... Why are you calling me that?"

John sighed. "I was just... nevermind."

Sherlock stared at him a moment longer before turning away. "William Scott Sherlock Holmes. Not Valkyrie. Come along, John," he said, striding towards the exit.

John just shook his head slightly and followed after him.

* * *

**And then John thinks that Bonds and feather imprints are the worst of his problems. Not quite so. Traditional h/c next chapter, along with the aforementioned problems the boys have to face.**

**Hopefully people are still enjoying this. I've never particularly had the courage to write a wing!lock and it doesn't seem to be outrageously popular, so I do worry a bit. :p I do not own _Sherlock_. Drop your thoughts if you can... They are very appreciated. Thank you!**


	5. Being One with the Bond

John woke up at approximately two forty-five in the morning to make a half-asleep mad dash to the bathroom downstairs. Dinner made its reappearance in a violent vomiting spree that left him coughing and retching.

"Oh, f..." He coughed again and stood up, scrubbing the back of his hand against his mouth. "Sherlock?"

He didn't care if it was three in the morning. Sherlock was probably awake. Most likely awake, as he always was, and this was _his_ fault.

"... It's completely normal," came the response from Sherlock's bedroom.

John groaned and stood up, reaching back to flush the toilet. "How long does this last?"

"... About a day," Sherlock replied.

John sighed and washed his hands, stumbling out of the bathroom. He didn't go visit with Sherlock; he didn't want to talk to him right now. Yes, it had been his decision to go through the ceremony with him but Sherlock hadn't bothered to mention the illness bit until afterwards. Not to mention the _feathers_ burnt onto his skin.

It was weird. They were mostly on his back, some on his arms and tapering off down the back of his legs. They looked like strange, burnt-on tattoos. They still hurt; John had had the hardest time falling asleep.

Sherlock said they would go away, but if they didn't...

John was going to throttle his own Guardian Angel.

He brewed himself a cup of tea and sank onto the sofa, taking a hesitant drink. He managed about a half a mug like this until the bile rose in his throat again.

He returned to the sofa after the latest vomiting spree and curled up, wrapping his arms around his stomach and trying not to nick the burns on the back of his body.

* * *

When John woke up in another five hours to throw up again, he was vaguely surprised that Sherlock hadn't woken up himself yet. He was usually awake by this time... but John didn't question it. He didn't have time to in his sprint to the bathroom and, as he returned to the sofa, made a mental note to get himself a bin the next time.

By noon, John was feeling thoroughly miserable with himself. He was deviating between vomiting and tossing and turning in the throes of a newly acquired fever. His entire body ached, not just from the Bonding ceremony or the vomiting, but aches and pains that shot through his body in random, sporadic intervals.

What was stranger, John reasoned as he set his cup of water down, was that Sherlock hadn't been out of bed.

With a great sigh, John pushed himself to his feet and toddled back towards Sherlock's bedroom.

"Sherlock?" he questioned, pushing the door open. "Are you awake...?"

Sherlock mumbled something that John didn't catch.

"Sherlock," he sighed. "It's past noon. Are you getting up?"

Sherlock groaned and curled up. "Leave me alone..." he mumbled, drawing up tighter.

John frowned. "Are you alright?"

"No," Sherlock groaned.

John's frown only deepened as he walked over to Sherlock, laying a hand on his forehead. "You're burning up..."

Sherlock coughed heartily. "Yes... s'sick... needta sleep."

John tried to shake away the fever haze and focus on Sherlock. "Why? Sherlock?"

"I said I'd be sick," Sherlock mumbled, cracking his eyes open slightly. "Said we'd both be..."

"But I'm the only Human here. You shouldn't be more sick than me."

Sherlock coughed again, ducking his head against his chest. "I gave you... part of myself. I'm ill because... of that and you're ill because of... accepting it..." He coughed again before sitting up and kicking the blankets away.

John flinched from Sherlock's sudden movement, only to flinch again when Sherlock ran into the bathroom and threw up.

It was bad practise, he thought, to leave a patient when he was sick. But the alternatives were less than pleasant... aka, throwing up on the floor. So, John left Sherlock be and went back to his bin in the sitting room to throw up again himself.

* * *

John didn't make it off the sofa to check on Sherlock the rest of the night, but Mrs Hudson was up and down respectively to check on them both once she had realised they were sick. John told her they had food poisoning.

At least someone was keeping tabs on him, even if he couldn't. That helped a little bit.

After a meagre dinner of salted crackers and ginger ale, John had just struggled through his nightly routine of getting ready to go to bed when he decided he ought to go check on Sherlock.

He rubbed his arms and pushed open the bathroom door that connected to Sherlock's room, stopping in the doorway.

Sherlock was curled up in bed, his blankets kicked away (probably in a fit of sweltering from the fever and John understood all too well) but he'd discarded his shirt as well. His wings were free of their constraints and, right now, they were curled tightly around Sherlock's head. John couldn't even see his face through all the feathers.

"... Sherlock?" he whispered, walking into the room. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't reply, making John believe he was asleep. He looked horribly uncomfortable, though.

"Sherlock," John whispered, hesitating. If Sherlock had fallen asleep with his arm dangling over the mattress, okay, that would have been a lot easier. But _wings_? John was still getting used to the idea, Bonding ceremony being proof. "Sherlock..."

John reached forward and gently ran his fingers against Sherlock's wings until he found the top of them, trying to be as gentle as possible as he folded them away from the detective's face. He didn't think it was possible for Sherlock to suffocate himself with his own wings, but...

He wasn't kidding. He didn't want a different Angel. He wanted Sherlock and, if he couldn't have him, he didn't want one at all.

Which was a bit selfish to think, he knew, but-

John jumped when Sherlock ruffled his wings, but instead of waking up, he just tucked them down against his back into their proper place, the ends of his feathers falling off the bed to brush against the floorboards.

John sighed and palmed Sherlock's forehead briefly, finding the fever still there. With an exhausted huff, he went back to the bathroom, ran a compress under the tap, and went back to Sherlock to place it on his forehead.

"You better hope we feel better tomorrow," he muttered before turning away.

* * *

The first thing John noticed when he woke up was that he no longer felt like he was going to throw up. The second thing John noticed was that something was wrong.

His body, his mind felt abuzz. It was like he'd given himself a shot of adrenalin. He wished Sherlock had a case, now, really, never-mind that it was barely past six in the morning. John wanted to be doing something, not laying around dozing away the day.

He sat up hesitantly, trying to shake away the feeling. He was just antsy after being sick from the Bonding ceremony... Speaking of which, he no longer felt any pain from the imprints on his back and when he glanced in the mirror on his closet door, found that the imprints had left altogether, leaving his skin as unmarked... or marked, depending on where one looked... as it had been before. Sherlock had been right. About all of it, it seemed.

The strange feeling came back with a rush of impatience. Is there a case? Something to do? Need to get a shower. And then breakfast. No, check the newspapers first. What if something happened while you were ill? Think!

His inner voice sounded a lot like Sherlock and again John shook his head to chase it away. He hated spending even a day in bed. It messed up normal life.

He went downstairs, brewed some tea, and shuffled to the bathroom to have a shower. After again inspecting for no more imprints in strange places, he got in the shower with the hot water blasting. He felt gross, sticky and sweaty.

As suddenly as the antsy feeling had come before, other emotions swelled from seemingly nothingness as the hot water blasted. Curiosity. Pride. Irritation. Wonder. With each of these emotions, the strange, hollow feeling or noise, was back in his head and John was starting to feel properly worried when

_Sorry._

John froze, the body wash slipping out from between his fingers. It hit the shower floor with a loud _thud_.

_Sorry about that, also. I'm trying to get a handle on this_.

John flicked his gaze about the shower. It sounded like Sherlock was _right there_, all surrounding and encompassing, but he was... nowhere. In his bedroom, probably.

"Sherlock?" he called tentatively, reaching for his body wash. "Are you up?"

_I am._

The strange response again made John jump. It sounded like he was _in his head_, really.

"What the _hell's_ going on?" he called over the shower.

_I told you that our lives would be closer than ever._

"How are you doing that?"

_Telepathy. Well, sort of._

John stopped again, swallowing back a lump in his throat. Telepathy. So, Sherlock could read his thoughts-

_I can. I'm trying not to. I haven't quite figured out the mechanics of it._

"Stop talking in my head!" John snapped.

There was a blissful silence for a moment before the bathroom door suddenly opened. John flinched, again, feeling his face burn a horrid shade of red.

"I didn't mean to come in here!"

"It's easier to talk when we're in the same room and you didn't want me to take advantage of the mental connection." There was some shuffling, followed by the sound of liquid hitting liquid: Sherlock using the toilet.

John huffed in indignation.

"Don't worry. I won't flush."

"That's not what I was worried about," John retorted.

"I can read your mind, remember?" Sherlock said smartly. "It's another one of those things that I should have mentioned but didn't... In my defence, it's different for every couple so I couldn't be sure."

"This is _definitely_ something you should have told me! And don't call us a 'couple'!"

"Why not? The only person who has the potential to even hear us is Mrs Hudson and she already lives under the assumption that we're partners," Sherlock said, off-handedly. "Not to mention that she knows I Bonded with you."

"_What?_" John demanded. "How?"

"Like I said, we can smell it, John."

"We..." John felt his eyes widen. "Mrs Hudson's one, too?!"

"Yes...? I thought that was _fairly_ obvious, given she was taking care of us yesterday..."

"I told her we had food poisoning!"

"Oh, that. She thought you were delirious," Sherlock said flippantly.

"Am I the only one around here that isn't-" He stopped, searching for a word.

"A freak?" Sherlock asked quietly, barely audible over the spray of the shower.

John deflated like a popped balloon. "No. Sherlock. No. I'm..." He sighed. "I shouldn't have said that. But _honestly_. Mrs Hudson..." He shook his head slightly, trying to chase away the feeling that he was a bad friend for having brought up the 'different' thing around Sherlock before he realised that that the sadness he was his experiencing wasn't his own emotion, at all.

Sherlock was projecting _his_ emotions.

Well. That hurt.

John leaned his shoulder against the shower wall, closing his eyes. "So, what the hell's this mind thing?" he said after a moment, subtly changing the subject over.

Sherlock's projected emotions vanished. They came and went, whenever, apparently. Sherlock must have been trying to withhold them. "I've heard of it happening but it usually never does. Only certain people get something like telepathy when they Bond... The feather imprints and the illness are strictly universal but granted gifts, per se... Well, it's rare. That's why I didn't bring it up. My parents didn't experience it, neither had Mycroft... So, why you and I?" he muttered, more to himself.

"I don't care about that, Sherlock," John said, staring at the wall. "How the hell do we get rid of it?"

He could practically _hear_ Sherlock's raised eyebrow. "We don't. There has to be a way to control it, I'm sure... I deleted most of the Bond knowledge, well, non-practical Bond knowledge, anyway..."

John sighed. "How I wish you were talking about James Bond," he muttered.

A practically audible eye-roll. "I'll have to do some research. We'll be able to block each other out, but it's new... unstable. Like a foal on newborn legs. We're definitely going to experience some hiccups with managing it."

_And I bet I'll have to have a meeting with the Council, too..._

"What?" John asked.

"I didn't say anything," Sherlock said.

"Something about the council. What's the council?"

Sherlock paused, before John heard him sigh. "Sorry. Again. The Council is just what it sounds like. An Angel Council. They may want to meet you. I hope they don't come down."

"Oh, great. More attention," John muttered, lathering up his hair. "Will they care?"

"About what?"

"About this mental telepathy thing."

"Potentially... But they can't do anything to you without my permission, Council or not, and it would be stupid to just have tests run on me."

"What do you mean, tests? They're going to run tests on us?"

"They'll probably want to, considering we actually _are_ freaks of the Angel-Protected world now," Sherlock muttered. "But I'm not going through that. Not again."

"Again?" John echoed.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before speaking. "You're rinsing the shampoo out of your hair now, which means you'll be approximately twenty-six seconds until you get out of the shower. Your dressing gown is on the door." The bathroom door squeaked open. "Oh, I used all of your shaving cream, too. Forgot to mention."

The door closed and the bathroom was silent again except for the shower. John sighed and stepped under the water for a quick rinse-off before turning the water off and reaching for his towel.

For all of his problems right can, an empty can of shaving foam was the least of John Watson's worries.

* * *

**Wow! The feedback for the last chapter was _amazing_. Thank you all so much! And, such from the good feelings from the reviews, another chapter quickly, with a lot, lot, lot going on. Our boys are in for the time of their lives. :)**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Leave your thoughts in the box if you please. Thank you!**


	6. The Council's New, Old Problem

"Hey."

"Hm?"

"Last week, the Bonding ceremony..."

"What about it?"

"What did you put on me?"

"What?"

"You drew something on my forehead."

"Oh. I drew my Angel rune."

"Your Angel rune... alright. In your saliva again?"

"No. Holy Water."

"Oh."

So as thus their conversations went throughout the next week. Whenever John had a question, he asked, usually getting a lacklustre response in return.

Sherlock was preoccupied. John could tell that even without the unsettling feeling seeping into his skull from their telepathy. He took a case that Lestrade offered, but he didn't seem to put in his usual gusto. He barely ate and John didn't know if he slept, but he played a lot of violin and did relatively good with keeping out of John's mind.

John had started doing his own research. What he didn't know, he looked up. He could find very little about an Angel Council; however, he found lots of lore involving mental links forming after Bonding. It was an uncommon thing, but there were supposed ways of 'controlling' the link and, from what John and Sherlock (John suspected that it was mostly Sherlock...) were doing, it seemed to be working. Something about differentiating between your mind and your Bondmate's mind and blocking techniques.

John found himself worrying less and less about the mental link and more about Sherlock. Something was off. He didn't know why, but it was.

Sherlock came home late, spent the days out. It would have been strange, but... he was Sherlock. He did all of that, anyway. But something was off and John could feel it through their Bond. Emotion. Sherlock was experiencing emotion with whatever he was doing and he was trying very hard to stop it projecting. It was probably also the reason Sherlock and John were respectively having such an easy time staying out of each other's minds; Sherlock was trying hard to keep to himself.

He came home late one night, without his usual fervour, movements slow and so clearly buried in his mind, that John couldn't sit by and let it continue.

"What _are_ you up to?" he asked critically.

Sherlock didn't seem to hear him, just methodically removed his gloves, scarf, coat.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock jumped slightly, looking around at him. "Sorry, what?"

"What's wrong with you?" John asked, stabbing the mute button on the remote. "You've been all distant, moreso than usual. What's going on?"

Sherlock sighed and strode into the kitchen. "Well, I suppose now is the time. Remember when I mentioned the Council?" he asked, pouring himself a cup of tea.

"Yeah."

"Well, they want to meet you."

John raised his eyebrows. "Alright. Should I bring a gun?"

Sherlock's lips twitched towards a smirk as he brought his tea back into the sitting room. "No, that probably wouldn't be wise. Bad first impressions and all," he said, taking a drink of his tea.

"Alright. How's this work? Are they going to be human, like me and you? Well... sort of you, anyway."

Sherlock nodded. "They'll have vessels, of course. Looking at the true form of an Angel would most likely kill a normal Human. At least burn out your eyes. Even hearing our true voice can burst your eardrums. That's why you cringed when I was speaking during our Bonding."

John tilted his head. "That was... I thought it hurt my ears, but I didn't think... That was your true voice?"

"You couldn't understand most of it," Sherlock said smartly.

"No," John agreed. "Too deep. Rolling. Everything just sort of melded into one thing."

"Yes, that's our true voice," Sherlock said flippantly. "But back on the subject of the Council, they're gathering and they want to meet you. I'm not sure why; I haven't given them consent to do anything and I won't as long as you're my Protected, but they want to meet you." He paused. "They'll probably search your mind."

John raised his eyebrows. "Like you do."

"No," Sherlock said immediately. "They can do it without being Bonded to you or anything. Different Angels have different powers and the Council has the best of them. They could kill you by looking at you, vessel or not, if they wanted to. But they won't kill you, not now. Not now since we're statistics."

John sighed. "I'm glad you're so confident."

"I am. They won't do anything to destroy that right now, not until they know more." He took another drink of his tea. "I've been trying to put them off, but they've had several meetings with me and now my family... You're the last link and they are determined." He sighed. "I hate the Council."

As with most of the things John had come to realise in the past month or so now, he just went with it. Asking questions would only irritate Sherlock and John would find out for himself soon enough, he guessed. He wasn't _exactly_ the type to think about things before he rushed into them, especially if they involved potential death.

Sherlock was right. He had made a comment about how John chose a dangerous lifestyle, how he got bored with domestic life, and he was right. John knew he was just as bad as Sherlock... but he tended to keep that little thought only to himself. Most people thought he was the sane one, after all.

The spark of adrenalin was unmistakable.

"Why?" he asked. "Asides from them being idiots, I'd imagine."

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around his mug of tea, staring down into it. "I'm not sure. They play favourites. Favour the strong and seek out the weak. Angels are not supposed to do that."

John raised his eyebrows, again.

"If this were my brother and Jennifer, the Council would be going a lot more cautiously about this. But since it's me, it's all these summons across town and orders to bow down to them. Even my blood line doesn't matter."

John frowned. "Who's Jennifer?"

Sherlock looked back at him. "Really? _That's_ the one thing you pick out?"

"I don't know a Jennifer," John said, shrugging.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You know her as... Anthea, I think. He's her Guardian Angel, but yet she works for him. It's a strange little setup they have, but that hardly surprises me."

"Mycroft is Anthea's... huh," John said quietly. "I can picture that, actually. He guards her until death, but she pays for it by working for him?"

"He's a bit like a male prostitute," Sherlock said seriously.

John exhaled with a short laugh. "Yeah... so, when do we meet this 'Council'?" he asked, looking at his watch. "I could be ready in ten, if they're really keen on meeting me."

"They'll summon us both when they're good and ready, but they told me as much today to expect it soon."

"Should I watch the post for an invite?"

Sherlock smiled sardonically. He was quiet for a few moments before speaking again, tone quieter. "You're awfully accepting about all of this."

John looked back at him. "Well, I don't really have a choice, do I?"

"No," Sherlock said honestly. "But you enjoy it, too. Although I still don't see why you passed out when you found out..."

"I'd been living with you for two and a half years and you sprouted wings! What was I supposed to do, giggle about it and ask you to teach me to fly?"

"You couldn't fly; you don't have wings," Sherlock replied smartly.

John rolled his eyes. "Well, once I got over the initial shock, I was okay. Just some things surprise me. You know, Mycroft being an Angel and that sort of thing..."

"You enjoy it," Sherlock said, lifting his mug to his lips. "You like the unpredictability. The thrill of the unknown."

"Oh, shut up."

"It's not a bad thing," Sherlock said, taking a sip of his tea.

John was about to respond when the television suddenly started blaring.

"John!"

"I didn't turn it up!" John protested, grabbing at the remote.

No more than had his fingers touched the plastic, the sound cut out. He looked up at the TV, frowning... only to feel the colour drain from his face.

_"Did you miss me?"_

Staring at him from the television screen was James Moriarty. _Dead_ James Moriarty, mind, but... Moriarty. Laughing. Alive?

John tore his gaze away from the TV.

Sherlock had stiffened, his mug still halfway to his lips. His eyes were wide, very much mirroring the way that John felt, staring at the TV. His face was blank, but the emotion read in his eyes and in the Bond.

_"Did you miss me?"_

Sherlock was wrong. Unpredictability, the thrill of the unknown...

It wasn't a good thing at all.

_"Did you miss me?_"

* * *

**HAHA NO ONE SAW THAT COMING.**

**xD Now really. Bigger problems on the horizon for the boys. One goes by the name of James Moriarty.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	7. Angelic Shortcomings

"How in the _hell_ can this happen?!" John demanded, watching Sherlock pace circuits around the sitting room.

"I don't know."

"I thought you said he was dead!"

Sherlock fixed him with a _look_. "He put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. What _else_ would be the logical explanation from that?"

"Did you check for a pulse?"

"Why would I check for a pulse?" Sherlock countered. "He blew his brains out in front of me! I didn't _need_ to check for a pulse."

"Well, apparently you did," John muttered.

"Oh, so this is my fault."

"You could have handled it better."

"I had other things to do!"

"Yeah, faking your own death in front of me!"

Sherlock grunted and turned away again, stopping in front of the window. "This is impossible."

"Well, it's happening, so apparently it isn't."

He was agitated. Sherlock. John could tell, and it wasn't just because his voice was louder or his tone pitching when he spoke to him. And not the pacing. But the Bond was practically straight anger and it was unsettling. But... it was also fuelling John's own anger, masking up the disbelief that the man who was determined to destroy Sherlock was _still alive_.

John exhaled heavily. "What do we do?"

Sherlock didn't look away from the window.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock turned away from the window quickly, swiping his mobile off the table. "I don't know," he repeated. "Mycroft's line is busy; he's probably trying to do damage control." He sighed heavily. "Damn. Defeats the point of destroying the web if Moriarty isn't actually dead himself," he muttered, moreover to himself.

John sank back into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay. So the balance of probability is that he's going to come for us. Come for you."

"Yes," Sherlock said, resuming his pacing.

"So it stands to reason that we'll be dealing with him ourselves relatively soon," John continued.

"Yes," Sherlock said again. "Although the 'soon' aspect is debateable. Jim wasn't exactly the type to jump in. He liked to play, lest you forget."

"I haven't forgotten," John muttered. "... But do you think that changed?"

"Why would it?"

John raised his eyebrows. "You just faked your own death in front of him. He's going to be pissed."

"He just faked his own death in front of me," Sherlock countered. "He'll be delighted that I'm not _boring_."

"Oh. Lovely." John stood again - he, too, was having a difficult time retaining calm - standing uselessly for a moment before going to the kitchen to get a cup of tea. "What you're telling me is that we don't have a plan."

"We don't have a plan... yet."

Just then, Sherlock's mobile rang. John swivelled around and watched Sherlock jerk the phone to his ear without glancing at the ID.

"Mycroft, have you-" He stopped suddenly.

John looked up again from preparing the tea.

"... Yes." Sherlock's entire demeanour had changed. Whoever he was talking to, it clearly _wasn't_ his brother. "Yes... I understand."

It would have been interesting, under other circumstances, to see _Sherlock Holmes_ so put into his place, but it was even more unsettling now.

"Sherlock? Who is it?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly at him.

"Sherlock," John started.

"We'll be there... Well, it's hardly my fault! ... Yes, I know. Fine. Goodbye." Sherlock hung up. "Well, no need to worry about the post, John."

"Who was that?" John asked, bypassing the other information for now.

"We've been summoned," Sherlock said.

"Summoned..." John trailed off. "Oh. Your Council."

Sherlock nodded. "The Angel Council, yes."

"When?" John asked simply.

"Seven o' clock."

"Tonight?" John glanced at his watch. "Blimey. You think we should pick up a gift basket?"

That semi-delighted little smirk graced Sherlock's lips briefly. "Not necessary. We're not meeting because of you. We're meeting because of Moriarty."

"Oh. Good to be pushed aside," John said sarcastically. He poured a tea for Sherlock and took both of the mugs back into the sitting room. "Why is Moriarty their concern, anyway? Shouldn't he just be Scotland Yard and the government's? And ours, of course."

Sherlock took the tea, returning to his place at the window. "James Moriarty is Public Enemy Number One... in both your world, and mine."

"Hm?" John questioned through a drink of tea.

Sherlock glanced across the room at him. "Moriarty is a demon, John. One of the most powerful in the world."

John nearly choked on the tea.

* * *

"This is uncomfortable," John muttered.

"Black tie tends to be," Sherlock said simply.

"Oh, sod off. You're always wearing black tie."

"I am not. I wear a jacket and slacks. It's not as uncomfortable as a three-piece," Sherlock said. "And ties. I hate ties." He raised his hand to touch the tie around his neck, pulling at it slightly. "I feel like I'm choking."

"Well, don't tie it so tight. And take your scarf off."

"I didn't tie it tight," Sherlock retorted. He sighed and dropped his hand.

Despite that, John still continued to feel uncomfortable. As well as the suit and tie, the fact that they were going to meet an _Angel Council_ made John nervous. There were various questions floating around in his mind... He wouldn't say he was a Bible-thumping Christian, as Sherlock had put it about his parents (and he was right about that), but he did have his beliefs. About God and Angels and all of the related topics... If he didn't get on with the Angel Council, then what...?

He glanced towards Sherlock's car window, glancing at a shop when he noticed a shiver take Sherlock's form. He frowned, briefly wondering if he was cold. It was cold, but... that big coat. He continued to subtly watch him from the corner of his eye, frowning when the trembles came back every so often.

"Are you cold?" he asked abruptly, after about ten minutes of otherwise silence in the car.

Sherlock glanced away from his window. "What? No."

"You're shivering," John pointed out.

Sherlock frowned and rubbed his arm briefly. "I'm not." He turned back to the window.

"Are you feeling alright?" John pressed.

"I'm fine."

"Then what's with the shivers?"

"Nothing."

John huffed and turned away. Another idea hit him shortly and he frowned, looking back at Sherlock again. "Are you _nervous_?"

"No," Sherlock replied - too quickly.

John vaguely felt anxiety creeping into his own veins. "You're nervous."

"I am not nervous!"

The frown crept onto John's lips. "... Sherlock, if you're nervous, now I'm nervous. Who are these people?"

"Angels."

"Okay, who are these Angels?"

"The Council."

"Sherlock," John said dryly.

"Nothing. It's not important. I'm not nervous."

John paused for a moment before licking his lips. "Sherlock... What did they do to you that you... well, that you didn't like?"

Sherlock didn't look around from the window. "Nothing."

"You said something about tests..."

"Nothing, John," Sherlock said bluntly.

"I'm a part of this, too. I want to know."

"John." Sherlock's voice held a note of warning.

It didn't stop him, of course. "Tell me. Sherlock? Please?"

Sherlock sighed. "I'm not like normal Angels. This body, it's a vessel, but everything else is _mine_. And, from my... 'attitude'," he said, an eyeroll audible in the way he said the word, "made the Council believe that there was something wrong with me."

"I've always been exceptionally intelligent when it involves small matters... I'm omnivorous with a strangely retentative mind for details," Sherlock continued. "Of course, there's the little fact that everyone else is an _idiot_ and they get in my way and..."

"And you're rude," John said bluntly, filling in the statement Sherlock was dancing about.

"According to the majority of the popularity, yes," Sherlock replied, not sounding bothered in the least. "Well, Angels are supposed to be generally..." He waved his hand uselessly. "You know."

John blinked slowly. "... I don't know, Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed. "Well, not like me." He looked around finally. "A bit more like you, actually. Generally... accepting to people." He wrinkled his nose and looked away again. "But I refuse to be in the ranks of the Commonwealth and the Council thought that perhaps I was, how to put it... a defect," he said shortly.

"Angels are meant to protect people. Be kind and all that rubbish. I wanted no part of it; I still don't, frankly. But they wondered. Thought maybe I was part demon," he said sarcastically. "They couldn't believe that my parents, long time Guardians of over a hundred people combined, could have spawned off something so unholy in the eyes of their judgement. So, they took over my life."

Sherlock stretched slightly, shifting uncomfortably. "I probably should have ate something," he muttered, completely jumping tack.

John frowned, more from the abrupt change in conversation than Sherlock's declaration of needing food. "Why?" he asked belatedly.

"Because I'm light-headed," Sherlock replied.

John shook his head slightly, trying to chase away the thoughts turning over in his mind. "No, I meant, why didn't your parents do anything? Or... something? Were you just a kid?"

"Oh, you don't argue with the Council. If they want your kid, they'll have him." He sighed and looked back at John. "Don't believe they're all bad. They're not. They keep our world in functioning order. It's just... sometimes, you get a bad apple in the group and it just happened to be me."

"They make you nervous," John stated.

Sherlock fixed his scarf a bit. "I've just never gotten used to their presence, is all." He offered a brief smile. "They won't hurt you. You're _my_ Angel. They would have to kill me to take Guardianship of you and they can't do anything that would harm me without breaking the Codex themselves. They'll just wait for me to slip up," he muttered, the last bit under his breath.

"What did they _do_ to you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Poked and prodded and made me feel like an animal in a cage," he said.

It made so much _sense_. If Sherlock - who had been a kid, learning about what he was; besides, you hardly understood anything when you were a kid - when the Council had descended upon him, running tests and poking and prodding, as Sherlock said... of _course_ he was going to be predisposited to trying to be above the rest of the world. He'd spent his childhood being looked down upon. He would naturally try to show everyone up now.

... He'd been treated like shit, literally, like the underside of someone's shoe as he had been somebody that they hadn't understood and...

"John!"

John jumped slightly, looking back at Sherlock questioningly.

"Don't," he said.

"Don't what?" John asked.

"You're angry. Don't be angry. I don't need a..." He laughed shortly. "Well, I don't need a 'Guardian Angel' to stick up for me."

"We all need saving... at some point," John said quietly.

Sherlock didn't get the chance to reply because the car had pulled up at their destination. Nice building. Looked very posh. Like New Scotland Yard without so many pigpens.

"Nice place," he muttered, throwing his door open and getting out of the car.

"Only the best," Sherlock muttered as he stood. "Well... Let's get you acquainted with some more Angels, yes?"

John nodded once, shoving his hands in his pockets as he followed Sherlock. He didn't say it out loud, but he was thinking that he'd had enough of Angels for right now... except for one, of course, and that one was currently in stride with him, coats brushing as they walked side-by-side into yet another unsolved case.

* * *

**So, a bit of a filler with information. I'm sorry for the lack of action this round BUT readers (and John) get to meet the Angel Council next chapter. And, after that, well, I'll just say this: the East Wind is coming, Sherlock.**

**And - you guys didn't know Moriarty was coming? I thought I was being cliché and obvious! I'm so happy I surprised you! Haha**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. I do, however, love to hear your thoughts. Thank you!**


	8. The Angel Council

"Relax," Sherlock muttered.

"How can I relax if you're not relaxed?" John countered.

"I don't have to be relaxed for you to relax," Sherlock retorted.

"Yes, you do!"

The woman who had welcomed them into the building looked up at them just then. "Gabriel says you can go back."

Sherlock nodded and stood up, John mirroring his movements.

"How many are there?" he asked quietly, following Sherlock down the hallway.

"Five," Sherlock said. "Gabriel, Luke, Peter, Daniel, and Mary."

John raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock glanced at him. "... I know. But, what did you expect? Tom, Dick, and Harry?"

John sighed and toyed with his tie, running his fingers back through his hair slightly.

"You look fine."

"Great. I didn't ask."

"You just tried to fix your hair, so clearly you're nervous about making a good first impression. Like I said, we're not meeting because of you; we're meeting because of Moriarty. Just be yourself. They'll know if you aren't."

And with that, Sherlock grabbed the handle of a heavy, ornate door and pulled it open.

"Mr Holmes."

Seated around a magnificent table of what John suspected was pure mahogany were five seemingly normal human beings. Seemingly normal except for the fact that they had, of course, wings sprouting from their backs. All variations of white. Some cream-coloured, some ochre, some bespeckled with grey feathers. None like Sherlock's majestic appendages. John suspected that was rather the point.

"Gabriel," Sherlock said, breaking John out of his thoughts, ducking his head in the semblance of a bow.

John looked between the Angel Sherlock was talking to and Sherlock. The room was quiet. John felt faintly awkward before straightening his shoulders and meeting the gaze of those of the Council. "Am I supposed to bow, too?"

Sherlock gave him a look - halfway between confused and disgusted, it seemed - but one Angel, Gabriel, apparently, thought it was humorous because he chuckled lightly.

"So, you are Mr Holmes's Protected Human?"

John didn't back down. "Bondmate as well, of late, but... sure you know about that."

Gabriel smiled gently. "Indeed we do. Alas, if only our meeting was to talk about the rare occurrence of you and Mr Holmes's Bonding ceremony..."

John nodded slightly in a yeah, sure sort of way, looking up at Sherlock. He was still tense, but he had stopped fidgeting. He looked like he was carved of stone.

"If you please," Gabriel continued, drawing John's attention again, "have a seat. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of our company today..."

He pointed out each of the Angels specifically by name and John took note of them all as he sat down, paying special attention when Gabriel pointed out the one female within the ranks of testosterone. Mary. Her wings were different, mottled grey and white. She smiled at him warmly as he glanced at her across the table.

"Lovely to meet you," John said, letting his eyes rove across all of them, casting a quick glance at Sherlock again. The man still hadn't moved much, asides from sitting in the chair next to him. Obviously, the Council had had a lasting effect on him after what they had done, even though John couldn't see where they were bad at all. They seemed nice. Looks could be deceiving, though, he knew.

"And as with you, Doctor Watson," Gabriel replied. "Unfortunately, I'm sure you have realised that this is not a social visit."

"Moriarty," John replied. "That's why we're all here, right?"

Gabriel nodded, directing his gaze to Sherlock. "Have you any details from your brother?"

Sherlock looked up. "No. Nothing past what I told him nearly three years ago when James Moriarty appeared to have killed himself on the rooftop in front of me."

"Which was what?"

Sherlock frowned infinitesimally. "You know what."

"Relay the details, Mr Holmes. We're just trying to re-assess what we know."

Sherlock folded his hands on the tabletop. "Moriarty and I were on the rooftop. I had lured him there, he had come to end his game. Of course you all know about my faked death, and there's no need to go into that again, but we were talking, talking about the snipers positioned to kill John-"

John jolted. "What?" he interrupted.

Six pairs of eyes fell on him.

Sherlock's frown deepened. "What?" he asked.

"You never mentioned any snipers."

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly in that stop talking; you're making a fool of yourself way, but John ignored it.

"There were snipers? Is that why you faked it? Because someone was going to kill me?" he pressed.

Sherlock sighed quietly and looked back at Gabriel. "I apologise. Anyway-"

"Sherlock!" John protested. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Not now," he muttered.

"That's a bit important. You faked your death to save my life. You never told me..."

"_Later_," Sherlock hissed. John huffed and leaned back, crossing his arms.

There was a soft chuckle that seemed to echo about the room and only when he looked up did he realise the rest of the Council were laughing... at him, it seemed. Self-conciousness sprang immediately and he looked warily to Sherlock.

"I do see why you and John Watson were destined to meet, Mr Holmes," Luke commented.

John looked between Sherlock and Luke. Sherlock's face was as stoic as ever.

"They do seem perfectly matched," Mary murmured from her spot across the table. She was smiling, too.

John looked at her. "We're not a couple. We're not- I'm not gay. Or a... ah, whatever it was called."

"Winger," Sherlock muttered.

"A Winger," John said loudly.

Mary raised her eyebrows.

"Er." John backtracked. "I mean, a gay Winger. I'm not a gay Winger. I could like Angels... I mean, I've never... had a relationship with one or anything."

Sherlock sighed.

John took it as a signal to shut up and he turned away, dropping his gaze to the grain in the tabletop.

"Now that that's out of the way," Sherlock muttered, before raising his voice. "We had the conversation about my killing myself, Moriarty shook my hand, pulled out a gun, stuck it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. I really haven't a clue how he faked his death or what larger scene is going on here."

John tilted his head. "Wait... if Angels just take vessels to be on earth, doesn't that mean that demons take vessels, too?"

Again, six sets of eyes on him.

"Not entirely," Daniel said. "Demons and Angels vary in the ways that they present themselves in Human settings. Angels can take vessels. Demons are not supposed to be allowed the privilege."

"How did he get a vessel, then?"

Daniel shook his head. "That is something that still yet remains to be seen."

"If he shot himself, wouldn't he just... leave the body and go back to... wherever you all go?"

"John," Sherlock muttered.

John glanced at him. "What? You always stick your nose into my business." He looked back at Daniel.

"Your business is my business!" Sherlock retorted.

"In the case of James Moriarty," Daniel continued as those uninterrupted, "we were led to believe that he took complete control of his vessel. Essentially, he became Richard Brook, not just took control of him."

"Brook was fake," John pointed out.

Daniel shook his head. "Richard Brook was the name of the vessel that James Moriarty took control of. It came out that he was fake because his records vanished when he became James Moriarty."

John sighed. It kept getting more confusing. "Okay," he said simply.

"When he took over the vessel, they became one in the same. As Angels, we have to have permission to use our vessels. Borrowing, essentially. But when James took over Richard's body and soul..."

"He became a Demon with a Human weakness," Sherlock said bluntly. "Meaning he could be killed by normal Human means. Don't try to understand, it's confusing," he said, looking at John again. "Trust me. He should have died. And apparently, he didn't."

John frowned. "Alright. But... what do we do?"

"Well, that's what we're here to talk about," Mary said, a twinkle of laughter in her eyes.

For some reason, John felt vaguely like he was being laughed at, both him and Sherlock, although not necessarily in a bad way. It was... strange.

_I thought you weren't a Winger._

John jumped slightly, looking sideways at Sherlock. He seemed to interested in whatever Gabriel was saying - the head Angel had started talking again.

_I'm not_, he shot back.

_Your pupils are dilating. I'd suggest to stop looking at her._

John's ears burned hot. He closed his eyes briefly. _This is none of your business. You're supposed to be listening to your Council._

_I am listening_, Sherlock responded simply, and then the mental link fell silent.

John huffed and flicked his gaze briefly back to Mary. She was nice looking. Blonde hair, bright eyes. She had the air of a fun personality, albeit being part of an Angel Council. John... liked her.

Or rather, maybe John liked the idea of a girlfriend because he hadn't had one of those in awhile, too. Difficult to say.

Nonetheless, John sucked in a deep breath and looked back at Gabriel, settling in to learn a myriad things about the world's most dangerous man... and what made him infinitely more dangerous than John had ever known.

* * *

**Meet the Angel Council, John. Meet Mary. Hmm...**

**Due to a severe decline in the popularity in this story, _Salvation_ may be solely moved over to my Archive of my Own account. AO3 seems to house more of the AUs than necessarily FF. Never fear - I'll let the readers know in the next chapter or so if they want to continue to read it.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	9. Talk of Heroes and their Downfalls

**Note: 'Canon' drug use alluded to in this chapter. Re-vamped HLV plot-point.**

* * *

"So... what did we learn?" John mumbled, fixing his scarf. "Besides that Moriarty basically pulled off the impossible."

"We learned you're a Winger," Sherlock said.

"Stop it! I'm not a Winger!"

Sherlock smiled - seemingly much more relaxed now that they were walking to a nearby restaurant for a late dinner - as he looked down at him.

"Really," John muttered. "I'm not."

"Does it even matter?" Sherlock mused.

"You brought it up." John sighed. "So, basically, we wait for Jim to find us, right? That's basically what they told us."

"Essentially," Sherlock murmured. "But they wanted to fine tune the details, make sure I didn't miss anything... _me_."

"They didn't seem that bad, you know," John said, glancing up.

"Hm? Oh, no, they're not. I said they're not bad. They did what they had to, but... lasting impressions and all," Sherlock muttered. "I'm thinking garden salad and barbeque roast chicken... Sound good?"

John frowned. "Wha... yeah. It does. Well, not the salad. I had salad yesterday... Chicken sounds good, though," he trailed off. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I am."

"You sure?" John asked. "I take it that you don't really go out for fish and chips with them or anything."

"Obviously not," Sherlock replied, striding into the restaurant. "But I fail to see how this would mean that I'm not fine."

"You're emotional," John said bluntly. "And you're rarely 'fine' when you're emotional."

"I'm rarely emotional," Sherlock said, sliding into the booth.

John sighed. "Okay, fine, you aren't. But when you are, you have good reason to be, which means that something bad is going on. And 'bad' right now means an Angel Council that tortured you when you were a child."

"That's not necessarily 'bad'. It was just... a long time ago," Sherlock murmured, looking up to the waitress to place their drinks order. "Two glasses of white wine, one for each," he said before looking back at John. "And you're ready to order?"

"What? Oh, sure, I guess..." John glanced at his menu.

They placed both of their orders and Sherlock picked up the conversation - although to a different tune - when the waitress had walked away.

"I've got five different scenarios of how to get Jim's attention," he said. "But I'm having trouble tying down which options are going to be the best for the situation..."

"_Why_ are you trying to lure him to us? Isn't he already abnormally attached to us as it is? It's hardly going to take your... bait, or whatever, to get him to come out."

Sherlock sighed slightly. "That's my other insecurity. I'm not sure that Jim _will_ take the bait when it comes down to it... He just faked his death. He faked his death and knows that I faked my death. He knows that I know that he's out and he's going to realise that I want to meet him. Chances are, he's not going to come out at all. He's going to let me stew in the fact that he _is_ alive... but let me have my own theories for awhile about how he faked it..." he trailed off.

"Yeah?" John asked. "Why wouldn't he want to just come back just to rub it in?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "I suppose it's possible, but it doesn't seem very probable. You know who he is, how he works..."

John sighed also. He certainly knew how Moriarty worked, all right. "Well... for the sake of law and order, don't do anything rash. Let him come to us. Don't _make_ him... because it's going to end up with you getting hurt."

"I am not going to get hurt," Sherlock retorted.

John raised his eyebrows. "You faked your own death. I think that qualifies."

"Oh, I did that to protect you," Sherlock said flippantly.

John's head snapped up. "_That_. What is that? The whole thing you were talking about at the Council. The snipers at me."

Sherlock sighed. "Yes, there were snipers trained on you. You, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. If I didn't jump off the roof, you three would have been killed. There was only one sniper on site and that was the one who was placed to kill you. I assume he was going to inform the others - or maybe Moriarty was - to shoot my other friends if I didn't jump, but Mycroft got to him and convinced him to reconsider."

John only realised he was staring at him openly when Sherlock voiced his name out loud. "You... You did that to protect... us."

Sherlock glanced up and then glanced at his wine when the waitress brought it. "Yes."

"You faked your death to _protect_ us."

"You don't have to keep reaffirming the fact," Sherlock muttered, taking a gulp of his wine. "Anyway-"

"No, no, no. Don't 'anyway' this. You _died_ to save our _lives_," John stressed.

"I didn't die."

"You were prepared to."

Sherlock sighed, nostrils flaring with the action. "Yes, great, moving on."

"Why didn't you tell me?" John asked.

"Are we going to talk about this the whole time or can we get back to things that matter?"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock raised his glass again, taking a small drink. "It was unimportant."

"It was the most important thing you've done since I met you! Saving _our_ lives," John exclaimed. "You said you're not a hero-"

"I'm not."

"But you are!"

Sherlock looked away. It was only because of that movement that John noticed: Sherlock's neck had flushed a _barely_ noticeable red.

"Sherlock, you're blushing!"

Sherlock didn't move, although his neck got more red.

John couldn't help but smile. Their conversation was interrupted by their dinner arriving and John suspected that Sherlock couldn't be more happy about that.

"Thanks," John murmured, picking up his fork.

Their waiter had already left and Sherlock glanced around slightly. "... What?"

"I said 'thank you'. For... all of that," John said, forking a piece of his chicken.

Sherlock paused before frowning, turning his attention to dinner. "Honestly, I don't understand your sentimentalism."

And that, John figured, was the end of that conversation. He didn't mind. He'd come in with no idea and was leaving it with a warm, fuzzy feeling. And _those_ were something that Sherlock Holmes hardly _ever_ gave off.

* * *

"What were you thinking!?" John shouted, slamming his fist into the woodwork. "I go out for a weekend and come back to find you high as a kite!?"

Sherlock crawled onto the couch, trying to stop his head pounding. "... I'm not high as a kite. I'm just a little bit high." In retrospect, that wasn't the best choice of things to tell John Watson right now.

"_Just a little bit high?!_" John snapped. "Just a_ little bit_? Stupid arse! How many other times have you done this without telling me? I bet you spent the two years high, too, didn't you?"

"It's for a case," Sherlock moaned, pressing his face into the pillow.

"_Nothing_ for a _case_ could prompt _this_!" John said. "And get off the couch! You smell like a skip; get a shower."

"Later," Sherlock mumbled.

"No, _now_. Maybe it'll help you find some _common sense_." John grabbed his arm to drag him off the sofa. (Sherlock studiously swallowed back the groan of pain from the rough treatment.)

Sherlock jerked his arm away from John's grasp and stumbled a few feet away. "I said it's for a case; what more do you want?"

"I want you to _not shoot up_!" John scowled and turned away. "Sodding wanker. You better hope to _hell_ that I don't call your brother."

Sherlock straightened up defiantly and strode as evenly as he could back to his bedroom. He made sure to slam the door after him... which, of course, only irritated his own headache.

Two hours later, when Sherlock woke up from sweat-soaked fever dreams, he had the vague impression that someone in his room. Given that there were only two people in the flat and only one of them had the audacity to come _into_ his room in the first place...

"Go _away_, John..." he muttered, without raising his head from the pillow.

"Oh, he already has, you know."

Alarm shot through Sherlock's veins at the unfamiliar voice in his room before realisation settled and then the blood-pumping adrenalin and wonder. He struggled to sit up as quickly as he could in his state, squinting towards the figure at the foot of his bed.

"Drugs, Sherlock? How dreadfully dull of you."

James Moriarty was standing in Sherlock Holmes's _bedroom_. At the foot of his bed, in his usual black tie, idly fingering an apple in his palm. Moriarty.

... Sherlock wondered if this was a hallucination product of coming down from morphine.

"Oh, don't be stupid. Would you have such a headache if this was a dream or hallucination?"

He did have a point, Sherlock thought. His head was _throbbing_.

"Jim," Sherlock said, voice cracking from disuse. He cleared his throat. "What are you doing here?"

"Tsk tsk. You must take better care of yourself, Sherlock. I mustn't have you dying before I'm good and ready to take you to hell."

"You already tried," Sherlock reminded.

"Oh, only halfheartedly. Well _done_, by the way. I was hoping you had some ingenious plan to fake it. And then you very nearly took down my network... well, you missed me, of course."

"Of course."

Jim picked up a mug from the windowsill, carrying it over to Sherlock. "I made some tea while I was waiting. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all." Sherlock took the mug, reminded of, almost three years ago, when _he_ had been the one making tea for the psychopath. How the tables had turned... and not necessarily to the best. "What's the reason for this visit, then?" He took a drink of his tea, pleasantly surprised to find it exactly how he took it.

"Oh... Johnny was out, I figured we could have our little chat." Moriarty turned the apple over and took a bite. "Seemed hardly worth it to face both of you at the same time and... I wanted to see your face when you didn't have someone to call to your side like a loyal lap-dog."

"Hm." Sherlock took another sip of his tea, sitting up a bit more. "I suppose congratulations are in order for you as well. You faked your death right under my nose. Any chance of an explanation for that?"

"Oh, it was all quite ordinary. Remember that rhododendron ponticum?"

Sherlock paused with his mug halfway to his lips, mouth forming a little _oh_ under his breath before pressing into a thin line. That didn't explain the gunshot, though...

"Don't worry your head, Sherlock. It's all trivial. _I_ didn't go jumping off onto an air bag. What if you had missed?"

"If I had missed," Sherlock said calmly, "I would be dead."

"You took some chances," Moriarty said, in his sing-song tone.

"So did you. And that's why you've come back," Sherlock said. "That's why you're here now."

Moriarty nodded thoughtfully. "Good. That's part of the reason." He took another bite of his apple, chewed it contemplatively, and swallowed. "I don't owe you anymore, Sherlock. No. I don't owe you. I _own_ you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and set his tea down. "So you say. What I'm more interested about is-"

"Oh, no, Sherlock. You aren't allowed to be interested anymore. I call the shots now."

Darkness shot across the room, so stifling and blinding that Sherlock swallowed back an irrational pang of fear. There was nothing on his eyes, nothing constricting his sight and his eyes were open but... it was like it was _pure darkness_.

And it probably was, to be honest.

Sherlock heard the tell-tale sign of fabric ripping. It wasn't coming from him, despite how much his adrenalin was pumping and how territorial his Angel instincts were getting. The whole room seemed to be shivering, even the very air unsettled by some shift in the atmosphere.

Sherlock had a fairly good idea, of course. He wasn't stupid and he had studied Demons when he had been in 'school'. So when his instincts got the better of him and his wings burst free of the button-down cotton restraints hiding them, he found he didn't lament the loss of this shirt.

He was about to meet the true form of the most powerful Demon in the world. Nothing else mattered in that moment except prepping himself for the fight.

* * *

**Cliffhangers! Go ahead, be annoyed at me and then come back for the next chapter (which I've already written and... I kind of freaked myself out =p). Moriarty visiting Sherlock when he's high was influenced by a long-old idea mentioned to me by storylover18.**

**As for this story being on AO3, I'm going to be uploading it to there. I'll continue to update it here as well as long as long as it continues to be worth it (thank you all for your reviews, and leave me your thoughts about this chapter, too!), and if it goes solely to AO3, I will let you all know.**

**I still don't own _Sherlock_. I wish I owned 'AU rights' so I could give Sherlock wings and put it on TV, but alas. Leave your thoughts! Thank you!**


	10. Deadliest Substance Known to Angels

Half naked and in the dark: two places that Sherlock never really wanted to be with James Moriarty on the loose. The former was just inconvenient, but the latter was utterly dangerous. Also, coming down from morphine and feeling generally _off_ because of it didn't help, either.

_Our game was fun, Sherlock._ Really _it was. But it's time to graduate to the big leagues!_

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. Moriarty's voice pierced through his headache, making the pain redouble. Something about a Demon's true voice or... something. He couldn't quite remember, but... it hurt his _head_.

Pain. He could control that. Control. Right.

He scrambled to his feet, the hardwood floor cold against his bare toes. _This hardly seems your style,_ he countered, narrowing his eyes. _Wrapping me in darkness and expecting me to fight. Bit unfair, really._

_Not playing fair anymore._

Sherlock sensed movement to his left and moved back two steps, stumbling into the nightstand. He really was off his best. Through the thought, there was a sharp pierce of pain and Sherlock pressed his lips together to stop his gasp of mostly surprise. Moriarty was toying with him; he'd just plucked a feather. It was more a nerve pinch than real pain, but it was... irritating.

He knew what he was waiting on. Of course. But Sherlock had his Angel instincts buried so deep that he hated to bring them back into the fight... He was already coming down from a high. Rarely did he need to 'exert' himself in the Angel sense and... well. It had been a long time.

Still, at the next pinch, it was less hesitation and more spontaneous; with hardly a conscious thought, Sherlock delved deep into his mind palace to find the trigger and- the darkness vanished, replaced with a bright light that encompassed the room in a flash before flickering to normal luminosity.

Moriarty was rubbing his eyes, but he was grinning. "_Good_. I had begun to wonder if you had that Angel mana at all in you."

Sherlock ruffled his wings irritably, staring down the shorter man. Moriarty had changed, subtly enough, he supposed. His hair had grown longer, his pupils blown so wide that his entire eye looked black, but more noticeable where the long, black wings that stretched mostly to the sides, their tips curled over upon themselves where the room's width was too small.

Unlike Sherlock's, Moriarty's wings were sleek and looked smooth, like the skin of a snake. Completely bare of feathers; it was one signifying factor of if he was dealing with an Angel or a Demon. Clearly, he knew what he was dealing with before he saw Moriarty's wings, but if anyone else was just looking at him? They would know to run and not look back. No, unlike Sherlock's wings, which were packed full of feathery substance, Moriarty's looked like taut leather. Intriguing... but Sherlock much preferred feathers. They kept him warm on a blustery day.

"Not at all," Sherlock replied. "I just don't see the use of pointless parlour tricks in conventional Human life."

Moriarty clicked his tongue. "Disappointing. Parlour tricks are fun."

Shadows swept out of the corner of Sherlock's room, forming chains in an instant. Sherlock saw the motion and countered with another blast of light to chase them away, the shadow restraints dissolving into nothing.

"I've never cared for games," he said bluntly, flaring his wings out. It only slightly lessened the effect when he knocked over his opposite lamp.

Moriarty smiled. "You're out of practise."

Sherlock looked away from the lamp and back to Jim. "Well, you know how it is. Small flat."

"Or are you tied down by those horrid Angel rules?" Moriarty asked, voice full of mock concern.

Sherlock shrugged.

"I'll take that as a bit of both."

Sherlock suddenly had the wind knocked out of him, hit by an invisible object, and fell back against the doorframe. He coughed and sputtered for breath, sending a burst of energy through the room. There was a popping noise as the lights on the ceiling blew and glass rained down upon them.

There was no reprieve. The attacks that came were neither parlour tricks or marginally amateur. Sherlock countered them all, or most of them, without moving a muscle. It wouldn't have mattered; the darkness was back over his eyes. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit, and his anxiety only increased when the sounds of the world around him grew muffled. Moriarty knew his weak spots and he was exploiting them with the darkness, something that could touch and not be touched. Sensory deprivation.

But Sherlock did have instincts. It had been a long time since he was in a mana brawl - he preferred physical combat if the need to fight ever arose, merely because he had spent a great deal of training for it - but fighting against a high-level Demon was hardly an opportunity to take it easy. And, anyway... it was difficult to quell those instincts when someone got him going.

Two nearly invisible pulses of energy shot towards Moriarty and hit him in directly either eye. He doubled over with a yowl and Sherlock took his chance to leap forward, lunging across the room to pin Moriarty back against the wall. He hadn't quite worked out what to do with him. If he turned him in, he would only escape. If he killed him, he himself would be killed for breaking Angel Code, Demon or not. Letting him go wasn't an option, not anymore, but he couldn't exactly keep him chained up in the basement like he so often envisioned.

He was thrown off of Moriarty before he had the chance to decide. He hit the far wall hard, but was back to his feet with a swish of his wings. More things went falling to the floor, framed posters and books, but they were material.

Two seconds away from moving again, heat swept across the room. Moriarty wasn't playing with darkness anymore, but-

Sherlock knew the instant that the burst of pain washed over him.

He wasn't conscious of the yelp tearing itself through his body or the fact that he collapsed, immediately, again, with the rush of heat. He didn't notice the pain at first; it was all realisation and the thought that they - Angel Council included - had underestimated James Moriarty.

Another sound filtered through the haze and he realised it was _himself_. He pressed his lips together, in vain, drawing his wings back close to his body with a rush of mind-numbing pain.

Daemon fire. Or... a diluted version of it. Daemon fire should have killed him instantly, and while it certainly felt like he was burning alive, he wasn't dead. Being dead wouldn't have this much pain. His wings were _burning_. He wasn't certain if they were or if they weren't, if daemon fire was literal or metaphorical, really fire or just pain to the point of it. He had never paid much attention. It was very, very rare. Only certain types could wield it and it was rarely anyone who walked _this_ earth.

It had to be real, though, Sherlock thought through a haze. The prickling sensation of losing a feather now paled in comparison. His wings were being ripped apart. It felt like his entire body was being ripped apart, limb by limb. Everything was screaming in protest, or maybe it was just him, but the pain was _excruciating_. Nothing compared, nothing that Sherlock had ever experienced and if he got the chance to experience anything after this instance, nothing that he ever wanted to feel again.

Somewhere between the pain and the morphine, he felt his stomach rise and then he was choking and retching and gasping, the bile burning his throat as well as his entire body convulsing from the pain. There were simply too many reactions happening in his body; surely if self-combustion was a reality, _this_ would cause it.

There were fragments of words and voices and he heard Jim and John and distant memories of professor teaching them in school. _Daemon fire is the single most deadly substance known to Angels._ That was an understatement, Sherlock thought.

His limbs were missing, his mind was in a frenzy. He couldn't even open his eyes, but somehow his stomach managed to constrict again and make him vomit a second time. He wondered if it was an automatic reaction to the pain. Probably; he certainly wasn't controlling it. He wasn't in control of anything right now.

With that stunningly disturbing thought, Sherlock felt the darkness deepen and his entire world blinked from existence.

* * *

John was at the pub - in retrospect, probably not the best place that he should have been - sipping at a pint and eyeing a leggy blonde across the room. So, it definitely wasn't the place that he should have been right now, but he couldn't stomach Sherlock's downfall _or_ handle Mycroft's meddling right now. He was letting him sleep it off.

Of course, doctor's habits died hard and John had gone to check on him when he hadn't heard anything past the slamming bedroom door. Sherlock had been out cold, John thought for the best, too, so he had just left. Gone for a pint. Trying to chase away the thought that his best friend was slipping into the path of becoming a drug addict... again. For a case? Everything was for a case, according to Sherlock. John just... needed a breather.

He was in the midst of the breather, currently wondering if he could get a one-night stand out of anyone here (_not_ his style, but Sherlock's habit to do bad things, apparently, also rubbed off). He raised his pint to his lips for another drink.

Pain, sudden and sharp, shot through his body. He tensed up, his fingers alternately loosening on the glass. It bounced off the table and fell to the floor, cracking and breaking. John hadn't made to grab it, still frozen in the position he had been in for fear of causing himself some other bodily injury. Where had that come from? He hadn't done anything. He'd just been sitting here. A pulled muscle or something, maybe, but it _hurt_ a lot, for that...

Another stab of pain jolted John into action, although he didn't know what he was going to do to fight off the invisible warrior. The ache didn't subside this time, but ebbed away beneath the surface and just out of reach. John tried to shake it away, but it only grew steadier, making him feel ill to the point of being sick.

It was only after he was outside and gasping in lungfuls of cool, night air that it hit him. Maybe he wasn't feeling his pain. He tried to tap into Sherlock's mind - something he never got the hang of, really - once, twice, and the third time blew his breath away.

Sherlock was hurting.

John took off running without another thought. This wasn't right, not for morphine. Was it? Maybe... maybe Sherlock had gotten violent, got into something he shouldn't have, but no... something told John that this was a lot worse. This wasn't morphine. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew. This was something bad... Quite possibly Moriarty.

The two thoughts clinked into place as though they were always on his mind every second of the day. He knew as soon as he thought it, he was right. It didn't settle his nerves.

He was out of breath by the time that he returned to Baker Street, but he just slammed the door open and took the stairs two at a time.

"Sherlock!?" He snapped his gaze around the sitting room and kitchen. "Sherlock!" His trek was already taking him back towards the bedroom when he heard the faint groan and he threw the bedroom door open unceremoniously.

It looked like the bedroom had been ransacked. The poster of the periodic table was on the floor, frame broken into a thousand bits, the lamp overturned, lights shattered and burn marks on the wall. In the midst of it was the Angel he had come to be best friends with, curled into a ball and shaking visibly.

"Sherlock!" John crashed to his knees next to Sherlock, reaching for his arm for a pulse. "Sherlock? Talk to me. Sherlock!"

He didn't notice his wings until after he was sure he had a pulse and his breath caught for the second time that night. There were patches missing from Sherlock's normally perfect wings, feathers half-there and half not, burn marks marring the delicate skin beneath them. The burns glowed a ferocious red and, while there was no blood, there was a strong smell of decay in the air.

"Sher..." he trailed off, gently reaching forward so he could inspect the damage closer.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "Don'ttouchme!" he snapped on one breath.

John withdrew his hand immediately. He wasn't trained in Angel medicine and he had never had the need to be.

Sherlock's face screwed up and he squeezed his eyes together again. "Make it stop, make it stop, makeitstop, John- help-"

John relinquished his concern for the wings and instead grabbed at Sherlock's hands, trying to calm him down even though it must hurt like hell. If John had felt the pain through the Bond... it had to have been strong to get past Sherlock's control. "What do I do?"

Sherlock groaned out loud, which pitched off into a whimper, which crawled into John's mind and settled itself there painfully. He was literally _writhing_ in pain and John had _no_ idea...

"Sherlock, tell me what to do!"

Sherlock whimpered again and latched on to John's arms painfully. "Hurts. Wings. Centre of my being. Make it stop. Help?" The last word was a question and John's heart broke again. Forget the morphine. _This_ was the furthest that Sherlock Holmes could fall and this certainly hadn't been by choice.

"How?" John urged, coaxing Sherlock slightly closer if only to make sure that he wasn't going to injure himself further.

Sherlock twisted around and buried his face in John's jumper, stifling the moan into the well-worn fabric. The grip around John's arms that would be sure to leave bruises in the morning slackened and he grabbed a hold of John's torso instead, snaking his arms around him in sort of embrace.

John wasn't exactly sure how to handle that, but he let it go for a fact that he had more important things to worry about. If he were in that much pain, he'd probably be clinging to the first person he saw, too. "Sherlock-"

"_You_," Sherlock gasped out thickly. He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and it was an instant later that John realised Sherlock was _sobbing_.

Irrationally, it made John's eyes sting and he tried to push the feeling away, laying his hand on the one place he felt comfortable with right now, the back of Sherlock's neck. It was the closest thing he could get to hugging him back without touching his wings.

"Just take some deep breaths. Sherlock, I'm going to call 999, okay?" It didn't matter anymore if it was okay. Sherlock's speech was almost as garbled as his wings were mangled, so John didn't understand the reply. It didn't matter... John would have carried him to a hospital if he had to in that instance.

Instead, he just called for an ambulance and, when Sherlock refused to let go long enough for John to get some cool water for the burns (or what he assumed were burns), sat there, feeling utterly useless. He made a vow to himself that he was going to learn Angel First Aid. With all the trouble that Sherlock got into... well, he wasn't going to let _this_ happen again, whatever _it_ was.

Sherlock clutched onto John for dear life, shaking so hard that his sweaty mop of curls bounced against his forehead haphazardly.

John smoothed Sherlock's hair back reassuringly, muttering that help was on the way, that he was going to be okay. He didn't get a snarky response in reply, nor a dignified one, either. Sherlock just clung to him like he was his last link to the living world and he wasn't ready to let go just yet.

* * *

**Hmmm... I guess this isn't much of a better cliffhanger than last chapter, is it?**

**Yes, I created my own version of daemon fire! Nope, I didn't do it wrong, because I wasn't intentionally trying to make it like anything else. Do you know how _difficult_ is it to write is a mana battle? Mana is more flashy than descriptive and hopefully I managed it well enough for mental pictures to happen. As for me, I just want to hug Sherlock and stroke his uninjured feathers.**

**Keep up your reviews; they are the centre of a _writer's_ being. Thanks!**


	11. Bandaged Wings

There was a time where John would have begged for silence from his childish flatmate. Three years ago, three and a half... he would have paid money for Sherlock just to stop sawing away at the bloody violin at four in the morning.

But three days in a private room in the intensive care unit at a hospital? John _never_ wanted to experience this kind of silence again.

The ambulance had come and taken Sherlock - who had been nearly comatose at that point, asides his shaking - and whisked him away, into emergency surgery. There was a lot of muttering going about in the hallways and it wasn't because Sherlock was an Angel. John knew for a fact several of the doctors here had been trained in Angel Medicine. There were even a few Angels on staff, not that everyone knew that. But the whispers followed John every time he trekked to the toilet or to get another coffee. He didn't know why.

The doctors couldn't place what had happened, not really. They were being very vague. John didn't _care_ about that. He just cared if Sherlock was going to be okay and, after three days of being asleep, John wasn't sure if he _was_.

His wings were tattered, torn and burned down to the thin ligaments that made up the structure in a few sporadic places. There were handfuls of feathers missing. Of course, they were bandaged up now, in some magic binding spell or rune or something that John didn't understand. All he knew was that Sherlock's wings weren't so much wings right now as massive pieces of gauze and plaster.

John sighed and sipped at the cheap hospital coffee, letting himself back into Sherlock's room. It was much to his surprise to find Sherlock staring blearily at him from the hospital bed.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, hurrying across the room. "You're awake."

Sherlock looked up at him. He licked his lips and flicked his gaze to John's cup of coffee, swallowing.

"Water," John said immediately. "Hang on." He poured a cup from the pitcher and helped Sherlock to sit up, being overly mindful of his wings. "There... no, take it easy."

Sherlock huffed as John removed the cup, although he just licked his lips again and settled painfully back against the pillows.

_I'm stil_- Sherlock's mental voice cut off abruptly. A strange look crossed his face, eyebrows furrowing, before he cleared his throat to speak aloud. "Why... mental link..."

John sank onto the edge of the bed. "They said something about... you drained your Angel mana? That's why you've..." He cleared his throat. "You've been asleep for three days..."

Sherlock jolted slightly, his eyes snapping up to John again. "What...?" he asked hoarsely.

"Angel mana," John repeated. "They said that's why you were in a coma. And your wings..." he trailed off.

Sherlock sighed. "Yes..." He glanced over his shoulder. "They hurt."

John frowned. "Sherlock, what _happened_? I felt all this pain through the Bond-"

"Moriarty," Sherlock interrupted.

The words died on John's tongue. He looked down at Sherlock and Sherlock looked back at him emotionlessly.

"This was... _Jim_?" John whispered. "What did he _do_ to you?"

Sherlock shuffled a bit on his side - it had to be uncomfortable, John realised, but with his injured wings, he had very little room to move - and rolled his eyes. "Burned me. Except, this time, it wasn't my heart, but my wings." He sighed. "Daemon fire."

John frowned. "What's that?"

Sherlock looked back at him. "The most single-handed deadly thing known to Angels and supposedly so rare it hardly occurs once a century." He paused. "And Moriarty has it. I would say this just keeps getting better, except..." He rustled a wing feebly (and not without effect, because John noticed the wince before Sherlock could smother it).

"Don't move about..." John mumbled. "They said you might not be able to fly for a month or two, at least, and that's with therapy."

Sherlock didn't react much, but John did notice the slight flare of panic in his eyes. Sure, he didn't fly, but that was because of his own choice and where they lived... not because he _couldn't_. John couldn't imagine what it felt like to be tethered down when he had something so majestic-

"Don't," Sherlock said quietly.

John frowned. "Don't do what?"

"_Pity me_," Sherlock spat, drawing his bandaged appendages tight to his body. The spasm of pain across his face was obvious, but he didn't say a word.

"Stop moving," John said. "You're going to injure yourself further and then we'll be in deeper shit than we already are." He stopped. "You. I meant you."

Sherlock sighed. "No. We. It's always 'we'. Ever since I Descended, it's been 'we'." He closed his eyes, fumbling weakly for the blanket.

John pulled it up slightly, tucking it around Sherlock the best he could. "It's not a bad thing," he said quietly. "I'd rather be 'us' than just me."

"Why?" Sherlock asked without opening his eyes.

"Because I trust you," John said, gently folding Sherlock's wings away from his back. "Relax." The resistance fell out of Sherlock's wings and John continued to move them out of the way.

"Why would you trust me?" Sherlock mumbled.

John sighed. "Sometimes I wonder," he muttered. "I trust you because you're my friend. My best friend. I trust you more than I trust myself sometimes."

Sherlock opened his eyes. "... I'm your best friend?"

"Of course you are," John replied absently. He stopped when he realised Sherlock's voice had been serious. "You didn't think you were my best friend?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

John shook his head slightly, smoothing down a few of Sherlock's feathers that weren't bandaged up.

Sherlock's entire frame shuddered, his wings tensing up again.

"Oh, sorry. I keep forgetting-"

"No, it's... fine." Sherlock shifted slightly. "It feels... nice, actually... so long as you apply enough pressure not to tickle."

"Is that you asking me to continue?" John asked, feeling vaguely amused for the first time in the past twenty-four hours.

"Well, if you need something to pass the time," Sherlock said, a large yawn breaking off his speech.

"Go to sleep," John said, pushing Sherlock's legs aside so he could scoot backwards to a more comfortable position. "You're still drained. I don't know how long it'll take you to re-charge."

"With that type of battle... probably a while," Sherlock mumbled. "Don't feel like doing anything, anyway."

While that should have been alarming, John realised, he was quietly, secretly pleased. Sherlock needed to rest now more than ever. John didn't understand exactly what had happened himself, but if Sherlock was saying he didn't feel up to it, he needed to rest... for a good while.

"I know you'll take my meaning when I say 'That's good'," John said, carding his fingers through Sherlock's feathers.

"Mhmm... John...?"

"Hm?"

"Sorry about earlier," Sherlock muttered, shuffling over onto his stomach the best he could and folding his arms under his head "At the flat... I was a mess. Even here."

John smiled faintly. "Don't worry about it. Of course you were a mess. Anybody would have been a mess, especially after that... whaddya call it? Demon fire?"

"Daemon," Sherlock murmured.

"Yeah, that." John paused. "Was it real fire?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "I'm not actually sure. I couldn't... uh. Well, I wasn't with it enough to know what has happening asides from what _was_ happening. I knew what it was, but I don't know if it was real or mana..." He sighed. "I need to do my research. 's been a long time since I thought so much about being an Angel." He yawned again. "Ugh."

"Go to sleep," John repeated.

Silence descended as Sherlock didn't reply and it continued through the evening without a break. This time, it was nowhere near as uncomfortable.

* * *

"I _can_ get a wheelchair, you know."

"My wings are hurt, not my legs," Sherlock retorted, gripping John's jacket tightly.

"Yes, but you also overexerted yourself, which is why you can barely _walk_ four days after the incident," John murmured, holding tightly onto Sherlock's waist so he didn't call. "It would just be so much easier to have a wheelchair."

"I want to walk," Sherlock said strongly. "Mycroft better have a car."

It was the day after Sherlock had woken up. He'd been caterwauling for a form every since he had woken up the second time, more lucid and more aware and wanting to get back to Baker Street. (Apparently he quite felt up to complaining, because he was doing a lot of it.) So, against John's better wishes, they were on their way back home. At least he would be content there, and not trying to pull out IVs and catheters or dismanteling the hospital beds and insulting the nurses. He might sleep easier and that was the _only_ reason John was letting him leave.

"He does. I saw it pull in," John murmured, turning slightly so he could back into the door. "Careful..."

Sherlock tightened his grip and followed after John. He wasn't complaining, but John could see the pain on his face.

Slowly, they made their way to their awaiting car. John helped Sherlock in first and then went around to the other side, climbing in. "Now all that's left are the stairs at Baker Street."

Sherlock sighed and shifted about, trying to sit comfortably without leaning against his wings. "Wonderful." He leaned slightly against John's shoulder.

John glanced sideways. "Okay. You've got to either stop that or tell me why you're doing it. You haven't let go of me since you woke up yesterday. People are going to think-"

"I don't care," Sherlock said, shuffling down a bit.

"_I_ do. I know it's not comfortable to sit because of your wings, but you've been touching me even since you woke up."

Sherlock sniffed and rubbed his nose. "I didn't really think you cared."

"We're in public."

"We're in a cab," Sherlock shot back.

"You have never been one for physical contact before this, so why now? You've been hurt before and you push me away when I try to doctor you."

Sherlock turned his head away, but he didn't move away from John's shoulder.

"Sherlock," John said, somewhat impatiently.

"When I'm in contact with you, it helps to block the pain," Sherlock muttered, so quiet under his breath that John almost didn't hear it.

"Wait, what?"

Sherlock sighed. "The Bond."

"Us touching helps you to heal?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded silently. "Yes. Well. I'm not sure if it's actual healing or not, but it... feels... nice," he muttered.

John almost smiled. Almost. "Well, you could have just asked instead of hanging on to my belt loops every time I tried to go to the loo."

"I wasn't hanging onto your belt loops," Sherlock retorted, although he still hadn't looked around. "It's merely Angel self-preservation instincts kicking in."

"Uh huh," John said, the smile finally making it to his lips. "Sure it is." He pressed his arm more firmly to Sherlock's.

Sherlock hummed and shifted around, trying to find a comfortable position.

"We'll be back at Baker Street in a few minutes."

Sherlock merely sighed.

Twenty minutes later, the cab had arrived at Baker Street, John had clumsily helped Sherlock up the stairs, the detective was free of the jumper he'd been wearing (he couldn't wear those tight-fitting clothes over his wings right now), and he was sprawled out on his stomach on the bed, pale and sweating.

"You can have your painkillers in an hour. Do you want something? Tea?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "No... but my Wings..."

"What about them?" John asked, flicking his gaze to Sherlock's bare back.

"Take the blasted bandages off!" Sherlock snapped before sighing heavily and burying his face in his pillow.

John chose not to comment on the tone. Sherlock's temperament had taken a nose-dive, but it wasn't as if John could fault him. He'd been through hell. "It's going to be better to let them breathe, so if you don't move while you sleep..."

"Do my best," Sherlock mumbled.

"I'll stick around and make sure you don't roll onto them when you're sleeping," John said, leaning over to start unrolling the normal gauze bandages now covering Sherlock's wings. "The doctors said that the burn cream might make it worse, since these aren't normal burns."

"I know."

John nodded slightly to himself, gently removing the bandages silently. Sherlock didn't move and John was sure that, by the time he removed the bandages, Sherlock would be fast asleep again.

* * *

**And where there's hurt, there's comfort. Oh, the mental pictures of Sherlock sprawled out on his bed with his wings draped about the floor, fast asleep. Sleepy!lock + wing!lock = Amazing. Not to mention my not-so-subtle sneaking in of Series Three quotes.**

**Bit of a time jump for next chapter, with both good and bad sprinkled within...**

**Thanks for your reviews!**


	12. High in the Sky, Down on the Ground

"Are you _sure_ you should be doing this?" John asked.

"You have asked me that seven times since I've given you the idea. Don't ask me again," Sherlock said, flexing his wings to their full length.

"But it's only been a month and a half..." John muttered, sitting back against the tree. "The doctors said a month _at least_."

"Look," Sherlock said, somewhat impatiently. "The burns are gone, my feathers have grown back... more or less. It doesn't hurt to move. The next step is, obviously, flying." He swooshed his wings up, and then down, the breeze created by it causing the warmth of spring to hit John full on in the face.

It was a nice day. Mid-May, clear skies, gentle breeze. Sherlock had announced a week ago that it was time to try flying again.

Almost two months had gone by since the attack with Moriarty and Sherlock was right: his wings looked almost back to perfect, except for the feathers that were growing back in still. He'd gone through a phase of moulting that had left black feathers all over the house and they were still coming back in in spots. The burns had taken up to last week to completely heal, although Sherlock claimed that they had stopped hurting awhile ago. John didn't know if that was true, but he had never complained except for the first couple of weeks. He had been going through therapy - with John, mind. He wouldn't actually _go_ to someone, so he was having John act as the physical therapist, which would have bothered John had he not gone through physical therapy himself. It was different, but the ideals were the same. _Someone_ had to tell Sherlock when he needed to rest.

"How many times-"

"I'm not overexerting myself. I'm just going to fly a bit," Sherlock said. He bobbed a bit on the balls of his bare feet. His hair tousled slightly with the breeze. "Trust me, if you could fly, you would be wanting to fly as soon as possible, too."

"Well, I can't, now can I?" John asked, watching Sherlock. "Be _careful_."

Sherlock smirked. "Oh, please. I always am."

John sighed. "That's what I'm worried about."

Sherlock's smile didn't falter. Simultaneously, he bounced a bit on his feet again before bending at the knees and springing upwards, grabbing the tree branch a few feet above. He swung to gain momentum before flipping around, hooking his arms and legs around the branch.

John stared up at him. Sherlock seemed to have become akin to a chimpanzee.

Sherlock got to his feet lithely, balancing perfectly steady on the branch. He looked down at John. "What?"

John shook his head. "Nothing."

"Baritsu does help with these types of things," Sherlock said, easily reaching up and pulling himself onto another tree branch higher up. He walked along the expanse of the branch, heading out to the edge while John sat below him, watching with wholly rational fear. Sherlock didn't seem in the least bit perturbed by it. "Keeping my balance, being graceful. You have to learn to control your body when you're using it as a weapon."

"Yeah... right. Sherlock, if you're going to try flying, you shouldn't be up so high. If you can't pull it off, you're going to break your neck."

"I'm going to be fine," Sherlock said. "Just watch." Without a moment's hesitation, he launched himself off the branch as though he were diving into a pool.

John's stomach dropped at the same exact moment that Sherlock's wings snapped out. His wings caught the air, expanding outwards with his feathers ruffled by the wind.

John breathed a sigh of relief when Sherlock glid through the air like a hot knife through butter, but the next thing he knew, Sherlock had gone head over heels and crashed the last couple of feet to the ground.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Sherlock said, waving him away.

"You're bleeding," John said, crouching down next to him.

"What? Where?" He twisted around to look at the scratch along his ribcage. "Oh, it's nothing. Just a scratch." He licked his thumb and thumbed the blood away. "I said I'm not good at it. And that tree is not high enough," he said, flicking his gaze back to the tree. "Never-mind. I'll just have a running start."

Before John could so much as try to make sure Sherlock's wound wasn't more extensive, Sherlock had bounded back to his feet and took off running. John only just stopped himself from running after him - it was instinct nowadays, thanks to many cases and chases.

Sherlock was in the air a second later, his wings catching a breeze that blew by. And then it didn't matter that he was rubbish at flying, because he took off, shooting through the air like a bullet from a gun.

John felt vaguely woozy watching him. "Sher..."

Sherlock did a couple of loop-de-loops in mid-air before floating down to John's level, hovering a few feet above. "You look pale," he said, a triumphant grin upon his face.

"I feel sick," John said, looking up at him. "Doesn't that make you nauseous, all that whirling around above the world?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. It feels like the most natural thing in the world. It feels _wonderful_," he breathed, tilting his head back. "The wind in my hair, rustling my feathers, having the sense of being able to be _above_ all of this? Of course it feels wonderful." He stopped and flicked his gaze down to John, an abashed look creeping into his eyes. "Well, I like it," he said, his wings pushing the air down and sending him a few feet higher.

John couldn't help but laugh quietly, although he stood by what he said - it looked like a good way to get an upset stomach quick.

Sherlock tumbled in midair, turning and flying down to John's level again. John ducked slightly, feeling the breeze from Sherlock's wings, and was about to turn around when arms suddenly slipped under his armpits. His eyes widened in surprise before, the next thing he knew, his feet were off the ground and _he_ was _flying_.

"Sherlock, put me down!" he exclaimed, scrabbling for purchase on anything, settling on Sherlock's hands. "_Sherlock_!"

Sherlock's laugh was deep, echoing through his chest. John was able to feel it, his back being so close to Sherlock's chest, but he barely noticed through the panic bubbling in his stomach.

"Sherlock!" he hissed.

"Relax. I'm not going to let you fall."

"Well, I don't feel very safe!" John exclaimed, struggling to squelch his rational response _of_ struggling. If he started physically struggling, Sherlock probably _would_ drop him. "Put me _down_!"

Sherlock laughed again and floated down towards the ground, flapping his wings fluidly. When they were close enough to the ground that John's feet touched, he immediately pulled away and took a few steps away for good measure.

"Oh, it's really not _that_ bad," Sherlock said, touching down behind him.

"Not to you! You're meant to fly!" John exclaimed, leaning against the tree again as his legs wobbled beneath him.

"It really scares you?" Sherlock asked, head falling to the side only a fraction of an inch. "Why?"

"Of course it does! Humans aren't meant to fly, unless it's on a plane," John muttered, sliding to sit down.

"Humans were created with legs for the position or walking, not flying. But yet, you get onto a plane without it bothering you, so the 'flying isn't natural' isn't the biggest part of it... You're afraid I'll drop you."

John sighed. "Yes, so?"

Sherlock laughed again and wrapped his wings around himself. "I'm your Guardian Angel, John. I'll never let anything happen to you." He paused. "Well, not anything fatal, anyway."

"Charming," John muttered.

Sherlock smiled, fingers toyly absently with his feathers. "Hungry?"

"No," John said bluntly.

Sherlock's little smirk didn't vanish. "I am. Starving, actually." He unwound his wings and traipsed through the soft grass to pick up his shirt to put back on. "If you don't want to eat, you can get a cab home."

John sighed shakily. "Just give me a few minutes."

"A few minutes," Sherlock agreed.

* * *

"I told you that you were fine."

John paused with the fork halfway to his mouth. "Yeah, once my stomach stopped turning in on itself." He completed the circuit, munching down on his corn casserole.

He noticed Sherlock's little secret smile, but he didn't comment on it. Sherlock had had that look since they had gotten back in the cab from flying. He suspected that he was rather proud of the accomplishment and John wasn't going to rob him of that.

"If you relaxed and opened your eyes, you'd find that it is a lot more enjoyable than you think," Sherlock said, stabbing a potato and dunking it in sour cream. "You were just panicking."

"Well, you didn't exactly have the best grip on me," John retorted.

"Next time, you can crawl on my back and-"

John choked on a strip of chicken.

Sherlock stopped. "John?"

John grabbed at his water and gulped it down, breathing heavily. "_Never_ say that again!" he spluttered.

Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"Are you _kidding_ me?"

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows knitted together.

John buried his face in his hands. "Do you honestly not... even after all this time..."

"What's so..." He waved his hand towards John. "Blush-inducing?"

"I am not blushing," John muttered, not taking his face from his hands. "Just... stop talking."

Sherlock sighed in an irritated sort of way, leaning back. "As you wish," he said, going back to his dinner.

After four years, surely Sherlock knew what he should say and what he _definitely shouldn't go near with a twenty foot pole_. Surely, right? Except, he _didn't_. And then saying awkward things like that _in public_? John wanted to _die_.

An echoing, deafening _BOOM_ shook the building. The glass windows behind John shattered, raining down on top of him. He exclaimed with the pain of the glass cutting his skin at the same moment that Sherlock's hand grabbed his shoulder and pushed.

"Get down!" he barked, pushing him down.

John wasted no time in shoving his chair back and scrambling under the table. There was another resounding _boom_ - the explosions and the screaming and the damage and the smell, buildings burning and gunfire and the Afghan heat beating down on his back...

Sherlock bumped his head as he huddled under the table as well, head turned away from the unbusted windows and his arm against his face as a shield. John was drawn out of his reverie and he grabbed Sherlock's wrist, pulling him out from under the table and dragging him towards the centre of the restaurant.

A third explosion made the building shake and John staggered into a booth. Sherlock steadied him and they both sank to the floor behind it.

"What's happening?!" John yelled. His ears were ringing and his heartbeat was pounding in his head.

"I don't know!" Sherlock replied.

John could feel Sherlock's body vibrating next to him, although he recognised that Sherlock's shaking was probably from excitement and not fear. Out of fear that Sherlock would go running towards the explosions, John grabbed a fistful of his heavy coat to keep him grounded.

Silence followed, broken only by screaming and frantic calls and sirens, deafening in the after-effects of the explosions.

John raised his head slightly. "Is it... over?"

Sherlock shifted. "I don't know," he repeated.

John swallowed. He swore he could taste sand in his mouth. He felt vaguely sick for the second time in the day, although this time was because of far worse implications.

"I think it's over," Sherlock said shortly, getting to his feet. John's grip slid from his coat without effort to hang on. "... Jim," he breathed.

Without another word, Sherlock took off running.

"Sher-" John struggled to his feet, feeling dizzy. No. Now was not the time. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to force his numb legs to work with him.

He didn't catch up with Sherlock. He got as far as the first person laid out on the pavement, injured and moaning, before his doctor's instincts kicked in. This was his battle field.

With one last glance towards where Sherlock had run off to, John crouched down to tend to his patient.

Sherlock could take care of himself. Right now, these people couldn't.

"I'm John Watson. I'm a doctor. Can you tell me your name?"

* * *

**For all the people who don't review because the filler chapters are fillers and boring, _here you go_. :P**

**(No, I promise it's not Khan bombing London. So sorry. xP)**

**Thank you!**


	13. Torture

John ended up at the hospital, which wasn't such a surprise; besides being near Sherlock, his place would _always_ be in the hospital with patients. He expected to see Sherlock wandering around here eventually - Sherlock would know that this was where John would end up - but he never spotted him amongst the throngs of people.

He didn't feel anything through the Bond, which was also weird. If Sherlock had gotten into trouble, John would know. He would _feel_ it. Wouldn't he?

By ten o' clock, John was exhausted. He kept looking for the flash of a black coat and a blue scarf, but it never came, and even when John had the spare minute or two to try and call, he never picked up. So, by the time he got back to the flat, he was, well, worried.

It only reached a crescendo when Sherlock didn't come home the rest of the night. John was too shattered to wander around London for him, but he was at it first thing in the morning.

_Sherlock? Come on. I know you can hear me in your head. Where are you?_

_What's the point of mental telepathy if I can't contact you?_

_I wish I knew what happened to you. Just a hint._

_Sherlock? Answer me._

_Sherlock._

He went to Barts, he went to the drug den, he went to Mycroft's. All of those ended poorly, although the one with Mycroft ended with John telling him what he could do with himself for not properly trying to help. He was sure he had bugs on him or someone looking or _something_... but all Mycroft did was offer a car and tell him good luck.

Even though John knew Mycroft had to be looking in his own way, it frustrated him to no end. Neither of them seemed to have any results, though; not a peep from Sherlock.

Three days from the explosion, John was out of options. He'd barely slept and had taken on Sherlock's habit of not eating. How could he?

John stared up at the posh building that he'd only been to once in his life. He had no idea how he'd ended up back here, honestly, or why he even thought it was going to help.

Just because he'd met the Angel Council here before didn't mean that they were going to be there now.

In fact, John was pretty sure that they wouldn't be. Sherlock had said something about them Descending... so that meant that they were always up in... Heaven? And John wasn't an Angel. So he couldn't go there unless he died. And if he died, there was really no point to any of this. If he died, Sherlock would die. If he wasn't dead already.

John shoved his hands into his pockets and strode into the otherwise abandoned building. There was no receptionist now. There were no lights on the building. John was surprised it was even unlocked. It was literally deserted.

"... I don't know what I was thinking," he muttered, looking at the ornate table that they had all sat at during the meeting. "Of course no one's here."

He turned around to leave, but stopped.

"Actually, you know what?" He turned around again. "You all can probably hear me. Me and Sherlock are freaks of the Angel world, aren't we? You've probably got tags on us. Sherlock's been gone for _three days_, damn it. This shouldn't just be _my_ problem. He's my best friend and _that's_ why it's my problem. But he's _your_ Angel, so you think that you'd be a little more concerned about that. I don't know what kind of shit you pulled on him when he was younger but _don't_ try and do it now. He is... well, okay, he's not a human being, but he is important. You cannot toy with him, pull strings like he's some sort of angelic puppet. So get to work on it, because I damn well want to know where my Guardian Angel is."

John stopped. Wait. If Sherlock's job was to protect him, to save John's life... what if this was something like... the assassins Moriarty had had on them before Sherlock faked his death? If he... put himself into a situation where... his life was in danger, wouldn't Sherlock come back? If he was still alive, he _had_ to be there, right?

"It's not a good idea."

John's head snapped up at the soft voice emanating from the previously empty room. Perched on the table that he'd just been looking at was... Mary.

John frowned. "How did you get there?"

Mary smiled faintly. "We're Angels."

"Sherlock can't pop in and out of existence."

"He's a Lesser Angel," Mary said simply.

John sighed. "Do you know anything about Sherlock?"

Mary nodded slowly. "We know about his disappearance. He hasn't been in contact and we haven't been able to get in touch with him, either. He vanished three days ago when the bombs exploded in Central London, correct?"

"Yes."

"You haven't heard _anything_ from him?"

"Do you really think I'd be here looking for the Angel Council if I had?" John asked dryly. "Not that I don't, you know, mind the company or anything, but I'd rather know where Sherlock is without it."

Mary smiled faintly. "You're worried about him. We are aware."

John's nostrils flared in irritation. "Well, _do _something."

"We are doing what we can, Doctor Watson. If anyone can find him, it's you. And not," she added, "by throwing yourself in front of a bus this time."

John sighed, sinking into one of the chairs. "_How_? I've been trying. He never responds to the Bond. What does that even _mean_? Is there something that's, I don't know, blocking our communication?"

Mary looked thoughtful. "It's possible. As Sherlock told you, mental telepathy is very rare amongst Angels and Humans. If there was a way to... cause interference, then yes."

"But daemon fire doesn't even mess it up. I _felt_ that, when Moriarty did that to him. It has to be Moriarty. _This_ has to be Moriarty, after the bombing, but..." He ran his fingers roughly back through his hair. "I've got to get back out there."

He pushed himself back to his feet - he couldn't just sit here - only to be assailed by a wave of vertigo. Darkness hit his gaze and he went down hard, consciousness swimming out.

* * *

Sherlock's head snapped up so fast that his vision blurred.

_John?!_

He didn't know why, or how, but, suddenly, John's consciousness had flickered across the Bond. He hadn't been able to get in touch through his mind, and he figured it had something to do with the IV currently hooked up to his arm that was keeping him pumped full of... whatever was being pumped into his blood stream. Or maybe it was a case of Moriarty siphoning his mana out, but he had been feeling very... strange for awhile. Very out of body. He wasn't sure why and he wasn't sure that he _was_ going to figure it out, but the handcuffs had officially started to make his wrists bleed, blood dripping down his arms to his hair and shoulders.

_John? John!_

Frustrated, Sherlock shook his head roughly, trying to shake away the strange floating assailing his limbs.

_John._

Still no response and Sherlock stopped trying. The brief flicker was gone, in any case. He dropped his forehead back against his arm.

* * *

John woke up slowly, groggily. He wasn't sure where he was or what had happened, but he certainly wasn't comfortable which meant he clearly wasn't home. And then slowly... Sherlock. He remembered Sherlock was gone. And then... he'd gone to look for the Angel Council, and found Mary. And then... he didn't remember.

"I'm sorry, John."

John pried his eyes open, trying to shake the disconnected feeling.

"It's just that I had to do this."

John forced his eyes open again.

Mary's face swam into view. There was a sad smile on her face. "There you are."

"... Mary...?" John mumbled, voice cracking. "What..."

"Shh, now. Don't work yourself up. It's just that the Council wants to learn more about you and Sherlock."

John blinked blearily. "... What?"

"We can't learn about either of you until we know how far you're willing to go for each other," Mary explained. "The Council wants to experiment. Don't worry. They won't hurt you much."

The _much_ didn't registered in John's drugged brain. "... Did you... take Sherlock, too?" he mumbled.

Mary's smile grew more sad, if that was possible. "No. Moriarty has him. But we are taking advantage of his disappearance to test your Bond."

John blinked hard. "... You don't care about him... or me," he mumbled, head lolling to the side. He tried to clear his throat. "Of course not. We're... statistics."

"No... well, okay, yes, you are," Mary admitted. "But it's in the eyes of safety for everyone else. A learning experience."

"How... how is Sherlock and I having a telepathic bond... dangerous for everyone?" John mumbled, trying to move but finding that he was chained up. "Mary... please..."

"I am sorry, John. Truly, I am." Mary turned and walked out.

John watched her go blankly.

* * *

Sherlock had been dozing off with his forehead pressed against his arm when the jolt of pain shot through him. He thought Moriarty was back but it wasn't pain from his side at all. It was from John's.

John was being hurt.

It was an immediate process. Angel instincts took over and his wings burst forth, stretching the expanse of the room. His blood boiled beneath his skin, vision tinging red. It did nothing to help the handcuffs and the ankle restraints, of course, but - There was another shock of pain straight to Sherlock's veins. It felt like electricity.

He growled under his breath, shocking himself enough to draw his attention away from John and to himself. Literally growled. He'd never been territorial, not like other Angels, never felt the anger pulsating through his veins. He was very rarely prone to jealousy, like with John's girlfriends, but this was something different. Scary different.

His blood literally felt like it was on fire. Was this what having a Bond meant? If so, why did everyone want it?!

From somewhere deep in his head, he could hear John yelling. That had to be his imagination. The telepathy wouldn't be so clear. Not now. Not like this.

"Stop it..." he growled, shaking his head wildly. "Stop stop stop."

His skin was crawling. It felt like his entire _body_ was tearing itself apart to get out of here. Get to John. Had to get to John. John.

Sherlock jerked on the handcuffs. They jangled uselessly. He did it again and pain of his own shot through his wrist.

"What is the point of being an Angel if I can't use my powers?!" Sherlock snapped, jerking on the handcuff again. "Damn it. Come _on_."

He very rarely got anything close to being frantic. The closest he'd gotten was when he'd gotten that text from Magnussen way back when he'd kidnapped John and stuck him in the bonfire. But something was making him very nearly frantic right now, and he was pretty sure it was the Bond. His mind was on hyper speed, thoughts pinging out of control within his mind palace, and every since _fibre_ of his being was chanting _John, John, John_.

Sherlock's eyes snapped to the IV, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. He didn't know what he'd been giving but it was blocking his mana output. What he needed was John, or a shot of mana, liquid form, that he could inject. That would help. What would be _wonderful_, though, would be getting the damn. IV. out.

Oh! Stupid! His _wings_!

Sherlock swept his wings around - whatever had been in the IV had been preventing his wings from expanding as well, but apparently, those territorial Angel instincts took over when the Bond was involved - and caught the IV, wrenching it free with a sharp _thwack_ of his wing.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he immediately began to jerk on the handcuffs again, awaiting his mana or his strength's return.

Two things happened simultaneously.

There was a loud snap. It didn't come from the handcuff. It came from his wrist.

Secondly, pain washed through him, intense enough to be the broken wrist, but also _far_ more intense than he had ever experienced with a broken bone. This wasn't _normal_ pain.

Sherlock gasped out loud and pitched off into a moan, doubling over. What the _hell_... was this...? Fire and brimstone. Ice cold. A thousand different shards shattering off his mind and body, ripping through his legs and arms, his head imploding. And in the midst of it all: John. He had... was _meant_... to get to John.

This was what being Bonded to someone meant. Something far, _far_ more important than loyalty. He hadn't been lying when he told John that he'd die if he left John after the Bond, but he hadn't expected this. Of course, he hadn't expected John to get _tortured_.

The handcuffs exploded off his wrists in a flash of bright light and he collapsed to the ground, not getting his arms out in front of him to catch himself. Besides, his wrist was broken. It wouldn't have mattered.

It was frustrating. He needed to get up to stop the pain, needed to get to John. But he couldn't move because of the pain. It was a fascinating paradox, but very, very... painful.

"_Up_," he ground out, putting his good hand on the ground to push himself up. His feet got caught; oh, right, the manacles. They were gone in a flash and he struggled up, using the wall for support. He barely managed to drag himself to his feet, trying to block the pain, when the second of his problems showed up.

"Where're you off to, Sherlock?"

Sherlock leaned against the wall, staring daggers at Moriarty. "Away... from... here," he ground out, standing up straight. "I have... places to be."

Moriarty tilted his head. "Time to go rescue Johnny boy from your lovely little band of Angels?"

Sherlock paused. Tha Angel Council? No. "They're not working with... you."

Moriarty shook his head. "Of course not. I wouldn't want to work with them to begin with. But they're taking advantage of me... which I don't really like." He glanced at his fingernails, seeming bored. "Hm. I may let them kill Johnny and kill you, too. This seems nice. Watching you slowly die. Scrabbling to the last second to get to your Bondmate. But when he's dead..." Moriarty held out his fists, fanning out his fingers to mimic an explosion. "Poof. So are you."

"You'll have to kill me first," Sherlock snapped.

"If you insist, but I'd rather watch you squirm," Moriarty said absently. "I like the idea of Angels killing Angels. After all, I _am_ a Demon."

Sherlock felt something biting into his palms and he relaxed his grip slightly when he realised he was drawing his own blood with his fingernails. It took a long second to fall into place, though, why it was so easy to cut himself, why it hurt so much. His nails were turning to... claws.

Oh no.

A cold sweat started to prickle his back. He recognised the signs, of course he did. He wasn't _supposed_ to recognise the signs. No one was _ever_ supposed to recognise the signs. Fingernails just didn't turn to _talons_ on a normal day. There was a reason he never truly gave into his Angel side, and that was because it was _far_ too easy to go into his true form when he was antagonised. Not that he had ever been in his true form. Well, not that he hadn't shifted into on purpose. For the Bonding, he'd done it on purpose and only briefly, not for letting himself feel.

This? This was instinct. Sherlock swallowed a pang of fear and staggered back a step. It wasn't that his... well, no, his true form was bad. If he gave into that base part of himself, he didn't know what would be there when he came to. There was a Demon in front of him and people hurting his Bond and his best friend. He was not in any state of mind to be giving himself over to... _that_.

_Sherlock, now would be a good time!_

He didn't know if he imagined John's voice or if John was really yelling at him in a panic like that, from whatever was happening on his end, but it was the end of Sherlock's tether.

He snapped.

The pain vanished. It was replaced with pure drive and ambition and not necessarily of the good kind. His nails shot past his fingertips, curling down to talons. He was vaguely aware of his hair tickling the small of his back and his wings glowing black before he had lunged at Moriarty.

He had the element of surprise and they went flying backwards. Glass shattered around them as they crashed through the back window and then they were falling.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of the sound of rushing water and the knowledge that he had no idea where they were at, the fact that there was blood beneath his fingers and that it wasn't his, and somewhere, waiting for him in London, he had to get back to John because, in that very moment, it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

* * *

**What did I _do_ to this story?! I had planned something very nice and light and fluffy! The past, I don't know, nine chapters have written themselves and I just follow along like a lost puppy and this is what's happening and oh, the idea of an Angel Sherlock getting really, _really_ angry is strangely attractive... /shifty eyes**

**Anyway. True forms. And trust me, there is a point to all this and it will be explained, but in due time. :)**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


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